The Executioner #221

Blood And Fire

By Don Pendleton

Copyright (C) 1997 by Worldwide Library

War means fighting … The business of the soldier is to fight … to find the enemy and strike him; to invade his country, and do him all possible damage in the shortest possible time. -Stonewall Jackson, 1824-1863

Those who let their ambitions rule them will get burned. I will not waste time on those who use the innocent to further their aims. I will go in fast, do the job and get out, fast. -Mack Bolan

THE MACK BOLAN LEGEND

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

PROLOGUE

Brooklyn, New York “Move! Move! Move!”

DEA Special Agent in Charge Nicholas Clooney led his drug interdiction team up the steps of the tenement. All nine men wore threat level III body armor over their black, fire-retardant raid suits, and Kevlar bulletproof helmets and masks covered their faces except for their eyes. Each man cradled a locked and loaded, silenced 9 mm Colt submachine gun across his chest. The weapon was essentially a 9 mm version of the M-16 carbine, which had been specially designed by Colt for the DEA to give the agents the stealth and firepower they needed against the increasingly heavy armament they were meeting in the war on drugs. Clooney was from the old school; he carried a shortened 12-gauge pump shotgun. Two team members toted a five-foot steel battering ram between them.

As they reached the door, Clooney sliced his hand through the air. “Now!”

The two men swung the metal head of the ram into the door just above the knob as Clooney roared at the top of his voice. “DEA! Freeze! Nobody move!”

The doorframe shattered around the lock, and with the second swing the door smashed back off its hinges. There was no response from inside. The men dropped the ram and unslung their subguns, as Clooney led the rest of his team into the building. Flashlights clipped to the barrels of their weapons clicked on and threw harsh cones of light before them as they stormed into the darkened interior.

They swept through the apartment; breaking into two-man teams and covering one another as they leapfrogged swiftly from room to room in search of their quarry. Clooney stopped in a room that was bare except for a battered sofa. He heard a final door being kicked in down the hall, but it didn’t matter. He knew that his men would find nothing.

This was the third raid in as many weeks, and the result was always the same: the posse had disappeared. Clooney could smell the lingering odor of stale marijuana smoke, and Jamaican graffiti consisting of Rastafarian slogans and stylized African symbols covered nearly every exposed inch of wall space. The posse had been here, all right, but once again had pulled a Houdini once a raid had been planned against them. The team would find nothing, not even a fingerprint. The posse was always one step ahead of them. Clooney stripped off his helmet and threw it against the wall in frustration. Someone was tipping them off.

“Hey, Boss! We’ve got something!”

Clooney snapped around as two of his men carried in a small, battered-looking suitcase. Special Agent Fitz set the case on the sofa and stripped off his mask. “Reiner and I found it under a cot in the back room.”

Clooney jerked his thumb at Reiner. “Get the lab on the horn, now. I want the entire place dusted for fingerprints, and I want a sweep for trace chemicals, as well.” He looked down at the suitcase. “If the posse was sloppy enough to make one mistake, then maybe they’re getting overconfident enough to make more.”

Reiner turned for the door. “I’m on It.”

Clooney looked at the suitcase, then nodded at Fitz. “Let’s see what our friends left for us.”

Fitz popped the clasps and started back in alarm as a muffled hissing noise rasped from inside the case.

Clooney’s eyes flared. “Everybody out! Move!”

The DEA team raced for the door, scrambling out of the shattered entryway. Clooney sprinted for the door as an immense sound roared behind him. The building lit up in a flash of blinding orange light and a huge, hot invisible fist seemed to sweep him up off his feet and hurl him tumbling through the air. His world went black as he met the wall with bone-shattering force.

CHAPTER 1

Hal Brognola sat in the waiting room and looked at his watch. The President’s secretary smiled at him. She was used to seeing him enough by now that she greeted him by name. A Secret Service man Brognola didn’t recognize stood motionless to one side. He nodded at the big Fed before going back to staring straight ahead at nothing in particular.

The President’s secretary picked up the phone, then said to Brognola, “The President will see you now.”

The big Fed nodded his thanks and entered the Oval Office. The President sat behind his desk, and Brognola recognized Calvin Spencer, deputy administrator of the DEA and Norman Mcaloon, deputy director of the FBI, as well as Bernie Steeves, one of the President’s senior State Department advisers. The President motioned the Justice man to a chair.

Brognola took a seat as the President introduced him. “I’ve asked Mr. Brognola to join us this afternoon. I believe he may have some valuable input into the situation.”

Mcaloon looked at Brognola. The two of them had met before in similar situations, but other than the fact that he was with the Justice Department, the deputy director had been unable to learn anything about the big fed. He wasn’t pleased about that, or about the fact that Brognola had the President’s ear. Spencer seemed to be too full of his own problems to worry about who Brognola was or what he represented.

The President nodded at the DEA man. “Why don’t you bring Mr. Brognola up to speed on the situation?”

Spencer handed Brognola a small, sealed plastic bag. Inside was a small amount of a white substance Brognola didn’t recognize, each grain shaped like a tiny flake.

“That,” Spencer announced, “is Jamaican Flake.”

Brognola shook his head. He’d never heard of it.

The DEA man continued. “It’s a new designer drug that has recently begun appearing in Florida and New York. It’s being distributed through Jamaican criminal posses in both cities, and their sphere of operation is spreading. So far, we have been unable to do anything more than bust the lowest levels of the street dealers.”

Brognola frowned. This hardly seemed like something for Stony Man Farm. “Excuse me, sir, but from what I understand, Jamaicans involved in organized crime are very high profile. They stand out and they take pride in that. Tracking them down shouldn’t be too difficult.”

Spencer shook his head. “You don’t understand. Tracking them down isn’t the problem, catching them is.”

Brognola’s frown deepened. “What do you mean?”

“The very fact that they stand out is a problem. Jamaican criminal gangs are very clan-like in their organization, and in the U.S. they like to exaggerate their ethnic differences. Frankly the Jamaican posses are almost impossible to penetrate with undercover operatives beyond the street level. Even when we do bust the street dealers, they just clam up and sit tight. A lawyer always shows up with bail, then they fall off the planet.”

Brognola held up the bag. “Tell me more about this drug.”

“Jamaican Flake can be smoked, or, more popularly, injected. It’s boiled in a spoon like heroin, and in liquid form it turns a bright blue. Injecting it gives the user a more potent high. Its initial effects are euphoric, much like heroin. It then bleeds off into a stimulant effect that can last up to an hour. When junkies mix heroin and cocaine to get that kind of effect, it’s called a goofball. Jamaican Flake is almost like a goofball of pharmaceutical grade and quality. It’s extremely sophisticated. Someone with a lot of money, an extensive pharmaceutical background, and access to a very modern laboratory designed it.”

“That doesn’t sound like your average Jamaican street gang,” Brognola said.

The man nodded. “No, it doesn’t. There’s nothing average about this drug or the way it’s being distributed, nor in its effects. It’s highly addictive, and prolonged use leads to paranoia and violent psychotic behavior. There have been a rash of random killings and assaults associated with its use. It’s also inexpensive, so even the lowest users of heroin or crack can scrape up enough money to afford a daily fix of this drug.”

“Do we have any idea who’s financing the operation?” the big Fed asked.

Bernie Steeves spoke up. “That’s a very interesting question. The initial outlay must have been prohibitively expensive.”

“We don’t believe that the Colombians or the Asian drug concerns would risk that much money on a new designer drug,” Mcaloon said. “The old ones have a bad reputation for causing Parkinson’s disease and having side effects that scare even hardened junkies. I think, and I believe my other colleagues would agree, there’s a new player on the field who’s using the Jamaican gangs as distributors and street soldiers.”

Brognola steepled his fingers and meditated on the information. It was a drug-enforcement nightmare. The Jamaican gangs were known for their savagery in taking territory and defending it. Their battles with the Mafia and the Latin drug cartels on the East Coast had set new standards in butchery. Now it seemed likely that they had been given sole proprietorship of a new drug that was starting to sweep the inner cities. Brognola could understand Spencer’s concern. Thousands of boats and planes entered New York and Florida from hundreds of islands in the Caribbean, making complete interdiction impossible. Worst of all, if the drug was being produced in labs rather than grown in fields, the production centers couldn’t be pinpointed by satellite. The United States was facing a potential epidemic.

The big Fed turned to Steeves. “What have you been able to do through diplomatic channels?”

The man shrugged. “State Department inquiries have met with little success. The position of the Jamaican government is that this is a United States problem on United States soil. I see little chance of American troops or investigators being allowed to conduct operations in Jamaica.”

Brognola turned to Spencer. “You say that the outbreaks are occurring in Florida and New York?”

“Yes. Our first experience with the drug was in Florida, then soon after in New York. It’s no coincidence that the highest concentration of Jamaican immigrants are in these two states.” The man paused. “There’s one other thing you should know. We’ve begun to lose agents. Two were killed in New York last week during a raid. The site was empty, but someone had left a bomb for our men. In any plan we make, I believe we must take into consideration that someone fairly high up in the DEA or the FBI has been compromised, and is selling information.”

Brognola shook his head. It was going from bad to worse, and he now understood why the President had summoned him. He turned to the Man. “Sir, with your permission, I’d like to send an observer to more closely assess the situation.”

The State Department official rolled his eyes. Another observer, more endless reports and yet another department mucking up the works.

Only Brognola and the President knew the true import of what the big Fed had suggested. Obeying the rules of diplomacy and international law were no longer viable options. Brognola had just told the President he’d ask for Mack Bolan’s help.

The two men regarded each other for a moment, then the President nodded. “I agree. You will receive the full support from the agencies assembled here. Mr. Brognola, send in your observer.”

CHAPTER 2

Mack Bolan, a.k.a. the Executioner, checked his weapons. With him in the van were agents from the New York branch of the DEA. A few seemed downright hostile. The big stranger in their midst was an unknown quantity, an interagency observer who had been suddenly thrust upon them by the higher-ups. Their orders had been clear: the observer Was to receive full cooperation. Normally such an individual was to be shunned and told as little as possible. To qualify for the interdiction teams, a DEA agent generally had to come up the hard way, through proved experience in the field. History had taught the DEA veterans in the van that observers were usually more interested in hunting for scapegoats and filing unflattering reports than in fighting the problem at hand. However, none of the DEA agents of the interdiction team could ever remember seeing quite such a heavily armed observer.

Bolan checked the load in his Beretta 93-R and flicked the selector to safe before sliding the weapon back into its shoulder holster. He gave his .44 Magnum Desert Eagle a cursory once-over, then checked the snub-nosed 9mm Smith & Wesson revolver in his ankle holster. A fighting knife was sheathed in the suspender strap of his web gear across his armored chest. A second, smaller knife was secreted in his boot, with only the top hole of its skeletonized steel handle showing. Two flash-bang stun grenades and a fragmentation grenade hung from his pistol belt. While the DEA agents wore black fire-retardant raid suits with matching helmets and gloves, their raid masks pushed onto their foreheads, Bolan wore a blacksuit and matching body armor.

The Executioner leaned against the wall of the van. There was nothing to do but relax until show time. He had half closed his eyes and slowed his breathing when he heard a voice address him.

“I’M Elizabeth Charles,” the agent said, extending her hand.

Bolan took her hand and shook it. She had a strong grip. “Mike Belasko.”

The Executioner had only had time for a cursory glance at the agent as they had loaded into the van. He noted that she was tall, just an inch or two short of six feet, and her skin was extremely dark, the same color as her eyes. She wore her hair in a functional pageboy style with straight-cut bangs that stuck out slightly from under her Kevlar bulletproof helmet. She had a long, almost masculine face with a strong jaw and prominent cheekbones.

“So, you’re here to keep us from screwing up everything?” she said.

“My mission parameters are actually fairly open, Bolan replied. “Tonight I was just hoping to whack some bad guys.”

Charles raised her eyebrows. Bolan went on. “Tell me, how do you know that tonight’s raid hasn’t already been compromised like the last ones?”

“Because the only people who know where we’re going and what time we’re getting there are me and the director of operations of the New York division office,” Charles said. “Our driver found out about ten minutes ago when I gave him the map and told him what time I wanted the interdiction team in place, and he’s under strict orders to maintain radio silence until we get there. His radio is being monitored.”

Bolan nodded. The DEA had already lost agents in this fight, and they were taking no chances. At this point, no one trusted anyone.

“How soon until we get there?”

Charles consulted her watch. “I’d say about a minute.” She pointed at the two men closest to the back of the van. “Fisher and Parker, there, are going to ram the door. Wincott and Anderson will take the lead on entry.”

She turned to Bolan. “I want you to stick by me like glue. Understand?”

Bolan nodded. “You’re in command. I’m here just as an observer.”

The agent gave the Executioner a hard look. “Right.” She glanced around the van. “Okay, final check. Weapons and radios, now.”

The equipment had been checked a dozen times already, and the team ran through the check with practiced speed. Everyone responded with a thumbs-up, then pulled their raid masks over their faces as the van quietly came to a halt. Charles looked to her lead men as Parker gripped the handle of the door. She suddenly sliced her hand downward. “Go!”

The team deployed from the van like a well-oiled machine. Wincott and Anderson took the lead, their Colt submachine guns leveled as they took the steps to the tenement two at a time. Fisher and Parker followed behind with the ram slung between them. Charles’s voice boomed startlingly even as the ram was hitting the door. “DEA! Everyone down!

Now!”

The door flew back off of its hinges under the weight of the steel ram. Wincott and Anderson entered. Suddenly the darkened interior lit up with strobing orange fire, and Wincott staggered as he took multiple hits in the front of his armor. Anderson’s helmeted head snapped back brutally as he took a round in the temple.

“Get down!” Bolan shoved Charles to the ground and freed a flash-stun grenade from his belt. He pulled the pin, and the safety handle pinged away as he released it. He crouched and sent the grenade sailing through the shattered door. Blinding white light filled the inside, and the concussive wave boomed, blowing out the window glass. Bolan pulled Charles up by her web gear and took the lead.

They were in an ambush, and the Executioner had bought the team and himself only a few seconds’ respite. There were only two choices: retreat or counterattack.

The Executioner roared over the ringing in his ears as he pushed the Beretta’s fire selector lever to 3-round-burst mode.

“Follow me! Move!”

Hard-won field instincts took over, and the team followed Bolan into the building. The gloomy interior was lit with a flickering orange light as the curtains smoked and burned where the magnesium from the grenade flash had struck them. A tall man with long, rope-like dreadlocks swayed on his feet and clutched an AK-47 rifle in his hands. The effects of the grenade had been bad enough for the team in the entryway: for those in the confines of the interior, the flash and concussive wave had to have been brutal. The man raised his automatic rifle drunkenly and Bolan put a 3-round burst into his chest. The rifleman dropped to the floor.

A second man fired his rifle from partial cover behind a sofa in the corner of the room. The soldier dropped to a crouch, and Charles threw herself flat as the rifle chattered at them. Bolan and the agent opened fire at the same time. They were joined by the next two team members coming through the door, and the Jamaican collapsed before the storm of automatic fire. The DEA men leapfrogged Bolan and Charles’s position and moved to the interior hall past the front room. A shotgun roared down the passageway and tore a chunk of wood from the doorframe. The DEA agents instantly sent covering bursts down the hall as Bolan and Charles moved into position and more agents entered the building.

The Executioner moved toward the hall as the DEA men covering him each sent a burst into the darkness. A figure partially showed itself around the corner at the end of the passage, leading with a nickel-plated shotgun. Bolan fired a burst from the Beretta, and the gunner jerked back. The Executioner fired a second time, and his attacker crashed into the hall.

Bolan could hear at least two men shouting at each other around the corner. He pulled his second stun grenade from his belt, pointing and holding it up for a moment for the rest of the team behind him to see. Charles and her team quickly turned and covered their ears as Bolan lobbed the bomb.

The concussive wave washed around the corner, and bright light flashed orange through the Executioner’s tightly shut eyelids. He opened them and moved swiftly. Around the corner was a bedroom containing two men and a woman. The woman cowered in the corner, screaming hysterically. One man held a huge stainless steel revolver, and the other waved an AK-47 rifle. Bolan put them down with two double taps from the Beretta. Charles moved into the room as the soldier ejected his weapon’s nearly spent magazine and slid in a new one.

The agent grinned as she observed the sobbing woman on the floor, and clapped Bolan on the shoulder. Finally they had someone to bust. Behind them the other members of the team spilled into the remaining rooms.

“Clear!”

“Clear!”

Bolan suddenly moved. From behind a door in the side wall of the bedroom came the unmistakable sound of breaking glass. The Executioner strode to the door and planted his foot just below the knob. He then spun to one side of the doorframe as the flimsy barrier shattered.

“Freeze!” Charles yelled.

Bolan edged around the door-frame in a crouch just in time to see a pair of bare feet slithering out of the narrow bathroom window above the sink. There was a crash of garbage cans as a body fell into them.

The soldier lunged into the bathroom and leveled the Beretta out the bathroom window. A short, thin man, with his braided hair pulled back into a long ponytail, had extricated himself from the garbage and was loping down the narrow alley behind the building. Charles leaned over Bolan’s shoulder. “Get him!”

The Executioner flicked the Beretta’s fire selector to single shot and peered down the sights. The pistol barked as he squeezed the trigger. The fleeing figure stumbled as his left leg almost folded beneath him, but he kept himself from falling and continued to run with a rapid limp.

“That’s Byron Shon! Put him down! I want him busted!” Charles snapped.

Bolan shook his head. “No. Bust him and he’ll clam up.” He flicked the Beretta’s selector lever to safe. “Get the van on him. Have them keep the tail loose and a low profile. He won’t get too far with a bullet in his leg.”

He holstered the pistol. “Let’s see where he goes to ground.”

CHAPTER 3

It was close to 3:00 a.m. as Mack Bolan drove the navy blue Bronco around the corner, Elizabeth Charles in the passenger seat. They both looked out the tinted windows when they passed the Uhuru nightclub. Beneath the club’s neon sign was an awning, and in its shadow they could see the outline of a huge man standing in front of the door. They were on Byron Short’s tail. The Jamaican had limped two blocks from the scene of the raid before going into an apartment building. Minutes later, a red convertible Saab, carrying four individuals, had come out from behind the building and driven toward Brooklyn. Byron Short hadn’t been positively identified, but someone with a ponytail similar to his had been seen being shoved down from the rear window. The apartment building was being monitored. The Saab had been followed to the club where it had parked in the back. That had been an hour and a half ago, and no one had gone in or out since.

Charles tapped her finger on the dashboard. “How do you want to play it?” she asked Bolan, then went on without waiting for an answer. “Wincott’s badly bruised from the burst he took, but he says he’s fit for duty. Anderson’s helmet stopped the bullet, but he has a severe concussion. I can have almost a full interdiction team here in twenty minutes.” She paused. “Or if you want, we can wait and get police backup.”

“I don’t want other organizations involved any more than you do,” Bolan said. “The problem is that there are at least four individuals in the club that we know of, and I’m willing to bet that they met people here. I don’t feel good about leading your team against unknown odds, understrength or not.”

“I’ll lead my team. You don’t have to worry about that. Her voice was cool.

Bolan nodded. “You’re right, but I still don’t feel good about it.” He locked eyes with her. “Do you?”

Charles grimaced. “No, I don’t, and you’re right. There could be over a dozen heavily armed, hard-core posse members in there. But we have a chance to make a real bust against these guys right in the palm of our hands. I don’t feel good about letting them slip out one by one and losing the whole thing, either.”

“I agree.”

She cocked her head. “So, what are you suggesting?”

“Reconnaissance.”

“How?”

Bolan smiled at her frankly. “What are you wearing under your raid suit?” Bolan asked.

She looked at him. “Why do you ask?”

“Does Short have a girlfriend?”

“According to his file, he generally has five or six at the same time.”

“How do you feel about going up to the door and pitching a fit?”

“That I can do.” Charles glanced over her seat into the Bronco’s cargo compartment. It was filled with interesting looking cases. She jerked her thumb at the stowed gear. “You’re operating out of this truck?”

“I have a hotel room, but most of my field gear is in here at the moment.”

“Do you have a change of clothes with you?”

Bolan nodded. “Several.”

“Let me see them.”

“How do I look?”

Bolan smiled. “Like a militant Playboy bunny.”

Charles had shrugged out of the top of her black jumpsuit, unzipping it to just below her navel and tying the sleeves around her hips. She had then taken one of Bolan’s dress shirts and, leaving it unbuttoned, tied the ends tightly just under her ribs, fashioning an oversize halter blouse. Her stomach muscles looked as if they had been carved with a hammer and chisel, and with the half-open man’s dress shirt the effect was startling. A carved and polished ebony pendant in the shape of the African continent, with three small inset stripes of red, green and yellow, hung around her neck signifying a unified Africa. She was still wearing her combat boots and her pistol belt hung low around her hips, stripped of its holster and handcuff sheath. She examined herself critically in the Bronco’s rearview mirror.

“It’ll do.”

She pulled her pistol from the holster she had put on the floor, and Bolan recognized the functional lines of an Austrian Glock automatic. She pulled back the weapon’s slide and checked the load. The pistol’s gaping muzzle told the Executioner it was a .45, but he was surprised to see a heavy, truncated cone, flat-head bullet gleam in the pistol’s action as it slid into battery.

“That’s not exactly standard DEA issue,” he remarked.

“I like big bullets,” she replied.

It was something they had in common. Bolan peered out the window. “All right, you know the plan. Short’s been shot, and you’re one of his hysterical girlfriends. Try to get a look inside and see how many targets there are. If they seem suspicious, don’t linger. Also, if Shon’s up and around, get out of there. Shoot your way out if you have to. I’ll be very close.”

Charles tucked the pistol behind her back, underneath the hanging top of her jumpsuit, and slid from the truck. She grinned at Bolan. “Piece of cake.”

The Executioner waited for a few moments, then left the Bronco. He had drawn a yoked rain slicker over his armor and weapons, and carried a newspaper in his hand. Inside the folded paper the Beretta 93-R was positioned to fall into his hand with a flick of his wrist.

A banshee-like wail split the night, as he crossed the street.

“Byron! Oh, God, let me see him! He’s dead! Byron’s dead!

Charles wailed, sobbed and flailed at the huge doorman’s chest. Bolan slid against a wall and listened. Around the corner the doorman tried to explain in a thick Caribbean accent that Byron wasn’t dead.

“He’s hurt! Oh, God, he’s hurt!”

Bolan heard music suddenly pulse loudly, and he realized the door to the club had opened. He caught some muffled shrieking before the door closed again. He was about to move when he heard the doorman’s voice boom.

“Listen, woman, Byron’s fine! I’ve seen him hurt much worse. He call you tomorrow. Now get along, before I lose patience with you.”

The agent’s wails subsided and she dragged her feet and snuffled as she wandered toward the corner and Bolan. She caught sight of him, then turned smoothly and yelled back at the doorman. “Tell Byron I’ll be waiting for him!”

“Shut up, woman!”

Charles walked around the corner. “You do that very well,” Bolan said.

The woman shrugged. “I didn’t consider acting as a career.”

“How many did you see?”

“At least eight, possibly nine, counting the doorman and the bartender. Short’s in a room in the back. He has a woman with him who stuck her head out and mouthed off at me. Most of them are sitting around playing dominoes in the middle of the room. I got the impression that they’re waiting for something or somebody. They’re rude boys, street soldiers, hard-core and heavily armed. One of them had on a lot more gold jewelry than the others. He may be a local higher up. I didn’t recognize him from the files.”

Bolan calculated. “I’m going in. The doorman has already seen you, so wait until I’m in before you follow me. Contact the van and have them and a backup ready to tail. I intend to let at least one of the targets flee, so make sure they know to keep their distance.”

Charles looked at the Executioner hard, then drew her Glock. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Bolan pulled his slicker around him and turned the corner. From under the awning he could see the doorman turn and look in his direction. The man was huge. His head was shaved and even though it was night, he wore blue mirrored sunglasses that pressed against his face. An acre of brown leather had gone into custom tailoring the matching jacket and pants that covered his massive frame. Beneath the giant’s left arm Bolan detected the bulge of a weapon under the leather jacket.

The Executioner started to pass the club when he suddenly turned to the doorman. “Hey, man, gotta light?”

The Executioner knew that shooting the doorman would warn the people inside the club. Surprise was his greatest ally, and to maintain it he needed a quiet entry. It was a safe bet that a member of a Jamaican drug posse would have a lighter.

The giant scowled at Bolan through his shades. The Executioner grinned up at him with the most Innocent smile he could muster. The big man started to rummage through his pockets.

The Executioner flipped the newspaper away from the Beretta 93-R and rammed the pistol’s steel muzzle brake into the bouncer’s solar plexus with all of his two hundred twenty pounds behind it.

The doorman gasped explosively and doubled over in agony. Bolan raised the Beretta over his shoulder, then whipped the pistol’s slide sharply behind the wheezing man’s ear. The giant dropped as if he’d been shot.

Bolan hooked his arms around the unconscious man and dragged him deeper into the shadow under the awning. He shrugged out of his long slicker and quickly checked the Beretta for damage. There was none. He pushed the pistol’s selector lever to 3-round-burst mode, loosened the Desert Eagle in its holster, and then slid into the nightclub.

It was a small club, and loud reggae music reverberated against the walls. Bolan crouched by the door cash register and scanned the area. A bar, manned by an enormously fat bartender in a loud caftan and matching fez, took up one wall. A wooden dance floor dominated the center with a small bandstand to one side. In the back was a scattering of tables and chairs, facing the stage. A folding table had been set up in the middle of the floor, and four men sat around it, intent on a game of dominoes. The table was strewed with beer bottles and firearms of every description, and the domino tiles fought for space.

The pungent smell of marijuana filled the air as two men sat at the bar and smoked with the bartender. Another man, wearing a huge number of gold chains, bracelets and rings, sat slightly to one side by himself. Beyond the stage was a door, and lamplight filtered from beneath it.

The Executioner strode into the club. One of the domino players looked up from his tiles, and his eyes widened in shock and anger as he reached for a pistol. “Hey! Who let the white boy in?”

Bolan put a 3-round burst into the man’s chest. The other players shot up out of their seats, and the men smoking at the bar dropped their water pipe in alarm. One of the players snatched a revolver from the table with a snarl of rage.

The Executioner put a burst into the man, and he staggered backward. A second volley toppled him to the floor. Mirror glass shattered over Bolan’s left shoulder as a shotgun roared from the bar. The bartender was rapidly shoving a new pair of shells into the weapon when the soldier put three rounds into his chest and neck. The fat man sagged behind his bar.

“Die man!” One of the men at the bar brought his pistol to bear on Bolan, then jerked wildly as he was double-tapped in the chest. The twin booms behind the Executioner told him that Elizabeth Charles was in the fight. One of the Jamaicans glared past him as he fired an automatic.

“Judas whore! I’ll kill you!”

The gunner jerked and shuddered as Bolan fired two quick bursts into him. The club was split by a staccato chatter as the jewelry-covered man fired an AK-47 rifle on full-auto, spraying the entryway with the entire magazine. The soldier fired another burst from the Beretta and crouched behind the low foyer wall. His pistol and the man’s rifle cracked open on empty almost simultaneously.

Bolan dropped the spent Beretta and drew his Desert Eagle. Charles ducked behind the counter as bullets whined off the metal register and tore chunks of wood from the partition. The Executioner rolled out from cover and fired prone from the floor.

The .44 pistol roared in rapid semiautomatic fire, and two more of the Jamaicans fell as the massive bullets struck them. The rifleman had dropped his AK-47 and drawn two automatic pistols from under his coat. He yelled and charged forward, firing both pistols as he came. Bolan heard the sonic crack of a bullet as it passed closely over his head and felt the warm push of the gun’s muzzle blast. A .44 Magnum hollowpoint stopped the man in his tracks. The Executioner put a second round into him, and his attacker’s pistols fell from nerveless hands as he sagged to the floor. Charles fired her pistol rapidly from behind the register, and the last man at the bar tumbled and went down.

All at once it was eerily silent in the club. Suddenly a woman screamed from the back room. “Byron! Don’t leave me to be murdered! Byron!”

Bolan smiled grimly. Short was high-tailing it again.

The Executioner sprinted across the club with the .44 Magnum leading. He put his boot into the door of the side room and it slammed backward. A woman shrieked and covered her face in terror when she saw Bolan and his pistol. A bloody sheet covered a cot, and a light breeze ruffled some stained curtains at the open window.

Bolan moved to the window and glanced out. Short had limped through the tiny back parking lot and was climbing the chain-link fence with difficulty.

Charles spoke over Bolan’s shoulder. “Are you going to shoot him in the other leg?”

The soldier shook his head. “No.” He reholstered the Desert Eagle on his hip. “Was the van ready to tail any escapees?”

“I called them right before I came in behind you. We have the van and an unmarked DEA car in the area.” They watched as Short fell over the fence, then gathered himself and began limping down an alley. “The unmarked is one street over behind the club. They should have him in sight in about twenty seconds. So we’re going to let him run again, right?”

Bolan nodded. “He’s been hit twice tonight, in two different locations. I’m willing to bet he’s going to contact someone in power, and they’ll want to see him and find out just what’s going on. They’ll send someone to come get him, or he’ll go to them. Either way, he’ll take us another step up the ladder.”

CHAPTER 4

Byron Short sat and glared at the phone. He was barefoot, he didn’t have a gun and his leg throbbed and ached. Climbing over the fence had reopened the wound in his thigh, and his handkerchief was already soaked through with blood. The grubby hotel, with its stained sheets and peeling walls, was the only establishment that would give a room to a bleeding, barefoot man at four o’clock in the morning. The sweaty little night manager had sat behind his cage and demanded a hundred dollars. He’d only had seventy-five, and the man had taken it without blinking. Byron was now broke, and most of his friends were probably dead, or wounded and in police custody.

He started as the phone rang. He grabbed the receiver before the first ring ended.

A voice spoke through some static on the other end. “That you, Byron?”

Short sagged back onto the bed with relief. “Gimme Jon-Jon. It’s most urgent.”

“Jon-Jon’s not here, but someone else wants to speak with YOU.”

Short’s stomach clenched. There was a moment of silence before a voice spoke with a clipped European accent came on the line.

“Mr. Short?”

“Yes, this is Byron.”

“I understand you are having some difficulties?”

“I’ve been hit twice in the same night, once by DEA, once by a lunatic. Everyone else is either arrested or dead. Yeah, man, I’ve been having difficulties!”

There was a momentary pause. “You seem to have been remarkably fortunate to have escaped twice.”

“I’ve been shot! I’m bleeding and broke. I fought hard, so don’t say that I’m a Judas!”

The voice became conciliatory. “Your service with us has been exemplary, Mr. Short, we remember that. We keep that in mind.”

The Jamaican calmed down slightly. “I tell you, something’s wrong. We had barely ten seconds’ warning before the DEA was breaking in the door. At Uhuru we had no warning at all, and then everything became blood and fire.”

“Was it the DEA at the Uhuru?”

“I don’t know. I looked out the door for only a moment. I saw a great, big, white boy, with the biggest guns you ever saw. He walked in like a terminator man and began killing everybody.”

“What of Mr. Clarendon?”

“I saw Clarence go down, and go down hard. He’s either dead or in the hospital.”

“Mr. Smythe will not be pleased to hear of his cousin’s death.”

“That’s why I have to talk to him.”

“So, let me understand this. You saw Mr. Clarendon fall, and then you ran.”

Short exploded again. “I told you, I was wounded. What did you expect me to do? You prefer me lying dead or in custody?”

“No, you did the right thing.” There was a pause. “Mr. Short, I believe you were followed from the first raid to the club, and I suspect you are being watched even now.”

The Jamaican closed his eyes and shook his head. “That’s just perfect.”

He groaned. “What should I do?”

“How bad is your leg?”

“I can walk.”

“Good. Rest where you are tonight. I am sending a money order to your hotel. It will be there for you in the morning. Take care of your leg as best you can. Tomorrow, go to the airport. A flight will be booked for you to Miami in the afternoon. We will have your leg looked at and try to get to the bottom of things once you are safe in Florida.”

“Okay. But what if I am being followed, as you say?”

“That will be to the good.” There was a short laugh. “My associates and I will look forward to meeting these people you seem to have found.”

Mack Bolan leaned against a wall in the DEA New York division office’s debriefing room. Special Agent in Charge Bill Cowling glared at Elizabeth Charles, ignoring the Executioner.

“You let Byron Short get away?”

Charles shook her head in irritation. “No, he didn’t get away. We trailed him to the Uhuru nightclub from the Brooklyn raid site. Once there, me and the Justice Department observer ran a surveillance and determined that the suspect was inside, the other occupants were aiding and abetting the fugitive, and that controlled substances and illegal firearms were on the premises. We then arrested the suspects.”

“You mean you killed nearly all of them.”

“We had no choice. They had automatic weapons. They resisted arrest.”

She tapped her finger on a photograph in an open file folder. “We have Clarence Clarendon.”

Cowling grimaced. “Yes, in critical condition.”

“Yeah, but we have him, and we can charge him with aiding and abetting, illegal weapons possession, resisting arrest, assault and attempted murder of federal agents. Clarence Clarendon is Jon-Jon Smythe’s first cousin, and Smythe is one of the top dogs in the Florida posses. We might have enough to make Clarendon turn state’s evidence.”

Cowling shook his bald head. “The Jamaicans hardly ever roll over on each other.”

“The man’s in critical condition and facing real jail time. If we can get a judge to deny him bail on the assaulting federal officers charge, I think we might stand a chance.”

“If he lives through the night.” Cowling peered at the agent long and hard as he changed the subject. “The second bust wasn’t cleared through the proper channels. You requisitioned men and materials without authority. I’m the agent in charge, and I never heard anything about the second raid until the coroner was loading the body bags and mopping down the walls.”

Charles stared at the table top. Now that the first flush of victory was over, she was suddenly facing possible charges of insubordination and acting without authority.

The Executioner spoke. “I take full responsibility.”

Cowling glared at Bolan. “You are an observer. You have no command authority over DEA personnel. But if you want to take responsibility for some of the repercussions of your unauthorized actions, I will be happy to bring up the matter with your superiors.”

The Executioner stared coolly at the agent in charge. “You and your office are to render me all possible aid in my investigations. I have the authority to requisition men and materials as I see fit. Agent Charles acted under my direct request in acquiring surveillance units and assisting me in the action at the Uhuru Club.”

“And on just whose authority are you acting?” Cowling spat.

“The Special Operations office of the Department of Justice.”

Cowling goggled. The Special Operations office acted under the strict control of the attorney general of the United States. The attorney general operated under the command of the President. The big man in front of him could very well have a direct line to God.

A DEA agent broke breathlessly into the debriefing room. “Short is moving!”

Bolan turned. “Which way is he headed?”

“He’s in a cab and heading east on the freeway. The guys in the van think he’s making for the airport.”

The Executioner turned back to Cowling. “With your permission, I’d like to ask Agent Charles to volunteer for temporary reassignment as my liaison officer. I believe Short’s heading for Florida. I’d like you to contact the DEA’s Miami division office and tell them to expect us. Also, the airport should be notified that federal agents will be on board one of their flights and they’ll be carrying and transporting weapons. I would appreciate your expediting whatever paperwork is required.”

Cowling cleared his throat. “Agent Charles, do you volunteer for reassignment?”

The woman looked at Bolan with raised eyebrows. After a moment she said, “I’d be pleased to offer whatever assistance I can to the Special Operations office.”

Bolan jerked his head toward the door. “Let’s go.”

It was unseasonably hot in Miami, and the hotel room was almost unbearably muggy. A powerfully built man with long dreadlocks slouched on a sofa and stared at the ceiling with ill-concealed anger. A very tall man in a gray suit ran a hand through his blond hair and checked his Rolex watch. He picked up the phone and punched in a number. After a few seconds he began to speak into the phone in a foreign language.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“Good afternoon. What is the situation?”

“Our New York interests were hit twice in the same evening. Our associate, Mr. Clarendon, is in critical condition and in custody. His cousin, Mr. Smythe, is with me at the moment. He seems very upset.”

“How did this happen? You led me to believe we had insurance against such surprises.”

“We had a few moments’ warning on the first raid. A DEA interdiction team hit a shooting gallery that our associates were still in the process of setting up. I had suspected the DEA would start using stricter security measures after the last two ambushes they ran into. Sooner or later they were bound to make a bust or two. This does not worry me, and, as I said, we still had some warning.”

“The second raid bothers you?”

Very much so. Our associate, Mr. Short, was wounded and was deliberately allowed to escape the first raid. They trailed him to the Uhuru nightclub, and almost everyone inside was slaughtered.”

“That does not sound like the actions of the federal authorities.”

“No. The second raid was not planned. It simply leapfrogged from the first one without official sanction, and the action itself was ruthlessly efficient. Again, Mr. Short was allowed to escape and was tailed.”

“You believe Short has turned against us?”

“No. He was wounded in the first raid. I believe he was simply used.”

“Have you sent for him?”

“Yes. He will be arriving in Miami later in the afternoon.”

“Do you think he will be followed?”

“Yes. His file has already been sent to the DEA’s Miami division office. My contact informs me that he is being followed by a DEA Special Agent, Elizabeth Charles, and an interagency observer.”

“What kind of observer?”

“This is what troubles me the most. I can find out nothing about him. All I have is a name he used in New York, Mike Belasko. We know that he wields sweeping authority and that he is very heavily armed. I am informed that he and Agent Charles took out the nightclub literally single-handedly.”

The voice grunted. “He does not sound much like an observer.”

“No. To be honest, he makes me nervous. I would like your permission to kill this man and the DEA agent with him.

There was a moment’s pause. “Very well, do it. However, I want you to supervise the action personally. I trust Mr. Smythe’s loyalty, but I would rather have your tactical know-how in this situation.”

The blond man nodded. “Thank you. I will report back when the matter is taken care of.”

“Of course. Good day.”

“Good day, sir.”

The blond man hung up the telephone and stood up from his chair, unfolding to over six and a half feet in height. He turned to his companion and spoke in English.

“We have a go, Mr. Smythe. I trust you can have your men ready within the hour?”

The Jamaican stood. When he spoke, there was a sense of pride in his tone. “My men have been ready since morning. Will you be leading?”

The man nodded. “It was what he requested.”

The Jamaican shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me. You’re a clever man. Set it up, I trust you.” He paused. “But the man who shot my cousin, Clarence, he’s mine.”

The blond man smiled. “Mr. Smythe, I would have it no other way.”

CHAPTER 5

Mack Bolan glanced out the passenger window as the green expanse of Florida rolled south into the Atlantic Ocean beneath them. He felt Elizabeth Charles’s eyes on him, and he turned to look at her. She had been quiet since she had agreed to join him. Now she looked as if she wanted to talk.

“So, why me?”

“You’re an expert on the Jamaican posses,” he said. “You can recognize many of the leading posse members on sight, including some of the Florida leaders. You can speak the lingo. You have field experience, both undercover and tactical. You proved you can handle yourself in a gunfight.”

“There are other, more senior DEA agents in the New York division office who can say the same thing. Why not one of them?”

“Because the DEA operation against this new designer drug cartel has been breached. I don’t know any of the other agents, so I can’t trust them. I suspect the enemy already knows we’re coming.”

“So you’re saying you trust me. How do you know I’m not part of the problem?” Charles asked.

“You seemed fairly determined in both the raid and the action at the Uhuru.”

“How do you know I’m not playing both sides?”

Bolan shrugged. “I’ve considered that. If someone is going to betray me, I want them close enough so I can kill them.”

Charles’s eyes widened, then she nodded. “Fair enough.”

Byron Short’s wounded leg throbbed from sitting in the cramped airline seat, and he limped out of the gate into the terminal at Miami International Airport. He was glad to be in Florida. He preferred the sunshine to the cold drizzle in New York City; it reminded him of home. New York had meant a great leap in his prestige and responsibilities. Now that his end of the New York operation was in flames, it was good to be back. He was also glad that his enemies were following him, and he couldn’t wait for the opportunity to help them on their way to hell. He wanted to hear the big terminator man, who had shot up the Uhuru, scream.

“Byron!”

The Jamaican turned and smiled broadly. Henry Clyde stood open-armed with two women by his side. Clyde was Jon-Jon Smythe’s number-two man in Florida, and he and Short knew each other well from when they were teenagers back in Kingston, Jamaica.

The two men clasped hands. “Byron, look at you! Was it as bad as they say in New York?”

Short nodded grimly. “Worse than you can imagine, Henry. Everybody arrested or dead. Mostly dead. Any news of Clarence?”

Clyde’s face grew serious. “Word is he’s alive and stable. No one’s seen him. No one can get near him. He’s surrounded by Feds. Rumor is they’re trying to make him talk. But first things first, my friend. We’ll get your leg looked at, then we’ll take care of your friends.”

“Do we know when they’re coming in?” Short asked.

Clyde casually glanced over Short’s shoulder at the disembarking passengers and mentally compared the tall woman with the description he had been given and photograph he had been shown. She was wearing sunglasses, but there was no mistake: it was DEA Special Agent Elizabeth Charles. A moment later Clyde turned back to Short. He didn’t want to chance locking eyes with the big man who had disembarked behind her. He had only a vague description, but the man walking off of the plane could be no other. It was in the way he walked and the power he radiated. Clyde took Short’s arm and leaned into his ear as they started to walk out of the terminal.

“Your terminator man is right behind you.” Short stiffened. “No problem. We have someone right behind him and in front. But now that I see him, I’m starting to believe the stories we’ve been hearing.”

They made their way to the Mercedes that was waiting outside. Clyde smiled, but inwardly he was disturbed. That big man gave him a bad feeling. He found it hard to believe that someone like him would just walk into a trap. Clyde dismissed the notion. The man was as good as dead. He was a corpse, looking for a grave. The sooner the big man fell into that grave, the happier Clyde would be.

Guy Tell sat in the airport bar and watched people walk through the terminal. Jon-Jon Smythe sat at another little table across from him and took an occasional drink from a glass of fruit juice as he casually watched the television set above the bar. Tell glanced at the paper resting on his knees as a young man with dreadlocks approached. “They’re coming,” the young man murmured as he passed Tell.

Tell peered at his paper for a moment more without looking up, then raised his head and took a sip of his drink. He spied the woman instantly. She was an inch or two short of six feet and hard to miss, but it was the man who held his eye. This Belasko was certainly not a cop. He was a soldier.

For a moment, Tell thought of aborting the mission. He had thought the story from New York might have been exaggerated. Short, himself, had admitted he hadn’t stuck around to watch much of what had actually happened. But one glance at the man made Tell think that perhaps the Jamaican hadn’t been exaggerating. Tell decided against aborting the mission. He would go ahead with the plan and see what happened. He didn’t like the fact that they knew next to nothing about this American. However, he knew one thing for certain: the man had come to Florida to do much more than observe. If they couldn’t buy any information about the enemy, there was another method of gathering information about him firsthand. Tell smiled. It was an American military term he had always been fond of: reconnaissance by fire.

CHAPTER 6

Mack Bolan slid behind the wheel of the rental car. Elizabeth Charles looked appreciatively at the fire-engine red automobile with its white leather top.

“You sure like to travel in style, Belasko.”

The Executioner gunned the convertible Mustang’s engine. It roared its readiness as the tachometer surged. Charles pushed her bags in the back seat and climbed in.

Bolan’s gear had taken up nearly every inch of trunk space, and one of his cases rested on the back seat next to her gear. He gunned the engine again. The car was an automatic, and he would have preferred a stick shift. He would also have preferred a less obvious color than red, and a hardtop to a convertible. He shrugged. The Mustang’s 5.0 liter, V-8 engine made it the most powerful machine he could rent quickly. As for the ragtop, the weather in Miami was beautiful, and the convertible would be easier to shoot out of. Bolan turned to Charles. “You ready?”

“One second.” She reached across him and pushed the button. Small gears whined as the white leather top came up off the windshield and folded behind them. She grinned as she pulled her sunglasses down off her forehead. “Now we’re ready.”

Bolan pulled the car around and past the rental agent’s booth. Charles turned to Bolan again. “Peel out. I’ve always wanted to peel out in a car like this!”

The Mustang’s tires screamed black smoking tracks into the asphalt, and the car lurched out onto the road.

“Get your carbine out and load it,” Bolan said, “then keep it down out of sight.”

Charles’s face tightened. “You think they’ll try something this quick?”

Bolan nodded. “I’m almost surprised they didn’t try anything in the airport. If it was just Jamaicans, I think they might have. They like their hits brutal and public to scare their enemies. But if I wanted us out of the picture, I would hit us here, on the road.”

The agent turned in her seat and began to unlock a flat, three-foot-long case that looked much like Bolan’s. She pulled out her 9 mm Colt submachine gun and placed it across her knees as she loaded it with one of six 30-round magazines that fit in special slots in the case. The remaining five magazines she put on the floor.

Bolan unzipped a soft black canvas case at his feet, leaving the grips of the Beretta and the Desert Eagle protruding. “Get my carbine, would you?”

“Your case in the back?”

Bolan nodded.

Charles unlocked the second case and her eyes widened.

You’re not fooling around, are you?”

She pulled out Bolan’s M-4 Ranger carbine. The shortened M-16 rifle was preloaded with a 30-round magazine and it had an M-203 grenade launcher clipped beneath the barrel. She placed it across the soldier’s knees.

The Executioner looked at the traffic around them as they pulled onto the freeway. He nodded toward a vehicle ahead of them. “That blue minivan with the tinted windows pulled out from the short-term parking lot about five seconds ahead of us, and they cut off several people to do it.”

“You’re very observant.”

“That’s why I peeled out. It made them jump.”

“So what do you think?” Charles said.

Bolan peered into the rearview mirror. “I’d use at least two vehicles. Three would be better. There should also be one vehicle acting strictly as an observer and to tail us in case we get away. If they’re clever, at least two vehicles will try to pin us, and another will come in for the kill.”

The Executioner accelerated. Several cars ahead, the lead minivan accelerated as well, changing lanes to keep in front of them. Bolan picked up another minivan, a green one of a different make, but also with dark tinted windows, creeping up behind them and to the left in the fast lane. The vans had sliding doors in the side and wide windows in the back, making it easier to get off a lot of firepower.

Bolan checked his mirrors, scanning for the third vehicle.

Charles spoke. “There’s your third. Another minivan, dark red, tinted windows. Just pulled onto the road behind us from the on-ramp.”

Bolan checked his mirror again. The third van was quickly catching up. The trap was closing. He accelerated slightly, and his right hand came to rest on the M-4 carbine across his lap. He flipped the weapon’s selector switch to full-auto.

“Get ready.”

Charles gripped her own carbine tightly across her knees.

The green van in the fast lane began to accelerate steadily up alongside them. Bolan’s right hand moved to the grenade launcher’s trigger assembly in front of the carbine’s magazine.

Ahead of them, the first van hit its brakes and changed lanes to suddenly drop in front of the Mustang’s nose. “They’re going for it,” the Executioner said.

The green van’s side door slid open as Bolan brought up his carbine and jammed the butt-stock against his biceps. Three men crouched in the van’s open doorway. Two of them were armed with AK-47 rifles, while the third held an Uzi submachine gun with one hand. The Executioner squeezed the M-203’s trigger. Pale orange flame roared out of the launch tube, and the carbine was nearly wrenched out of Bolan’s one-handed grip as the weapon recoiled savagely. He shifted his grip on the weapon, then held down the carbine’s trigger on full-auto, spraying the van’s interior even as the grenade detonated.

The vehicle’s tinted windows blew out in flames. The men in the passenger area tumbled as the high explosive round’s shock wave ballooned out of the interior in a gout of orange fire. The subgunner was blown out of the door, and he fell, twisting end over end out into traffic. The other two men were hurled in opposite directions into the front and rear of the van’s interior. Black smoke roiled out of the shattered windows and plumed from the open side door as the vehicle swerved against the guardrail. It was obvious that no one controlled the van any longer.

Bolan’s carbine cracked open on empty. He tossed it over his shoulder into the back seat, pulling the big .44 from the case between his feet. Charles had already shouldered her carbine and had put a short burst into the blue van ahead of them. The vehicle’s rear window shattered under the triple impacts. Fire roared out of the darkened interior in response, and Bolan’s side mirror was ripped away in a hail of buckshot. The agent put a second burst through the shattered window as the soldier jinked the Mustang to the left into the fast lane, taking them out of the van’s arc of fire. He flicked the Desert Eagle’s safety to off.

In a hail of gunfire and flying glass the men in the van shot out their own left side windows to get a line on the speeding Mustang. Charles put another burst into the side of the van as rifle barrels slid out of the broken windows.

“Get the tires!” the Executioner yelled.

Charles adjusted her aim and fired. The van’s right rear tire blew, and the vehicle swerved wildly. Automatic rifles sent streams of fire high over Bolan’s and Charles’s heads as the men at the windows were thrown about. The Executioner checked his rearview mirror. The third van was closing in on them. A big man was awkwardly shoving his head and shoulders out the passenger-side window, a shotgun clenched in his hands. His long dreadlocks flew behind him in the wind. Bolan yelled again. “Behind us!”

The agent twisted in her seat and began to fire. The Executioner drew his attention back to the second van as it struggled to stay with them with its torn rear tire. He glanced at the road ahead. There were cars ahead of them in both lanes. The van would gain on them before he could accelerate ahead and pass out into the open. They were going to be pinned. “Hold on!”

Bolan floored the brakes for a split second. The Mustang yawed and screeched in its lane, then shuddered as the van behind them slammed into its rear bumper. The man leaning out the window jerked wildly, and his shotgun clattered onto the road. To the right, the passengers in the other van abruptly found themselves parallel with the Mustang.

“Get down!” Charles flattened herself in her seat as Bolan leveled the big .44 Magnum over her head at the van beside them. He took a split second to aim, placing the Desert Eagle’s front sight squarely in the middle of the driver’s door. He began to rapidly squeeze the trigger. The huge pistol recoiled in his hand, and through the van’s tinted window he could see the driver jerk as the big .44 Magnum bullets easily penetrated the van’s door and struck home.

The van began to swerve to the right as the driver lost control of his vehicle. Bolan flicked a glance at the road ahead before shifting his aim to the listing van’s body and emptying the rest of the Desert Eagle’s magazine into it. He dropped the spent pistol on the seat behind him, then directed the agent again. “Behind us!”

Charles slapped a new magazine into her carbine as she rose and aimed at the van behind them. The same gunman was hanging out the window again, brandishing a massive revolver. Charles flipped the selector switch, and the carbine snarled in three long bursts that emptied the magazine. The pursuing van’s windshield pebbled and sagged partially out of its frame. She ejected the spent magazine. The gunman in the window held on for dear life as the van swerved and came in line again.

Bolan nodded with satisfaction at the road ahead—it was clear and straight. “Grab the wheel!”

Charles’s eyes widened, but she didn’t hesitate as Bolan brought up the Beretta 93-R from between his feet. He turned and took a two-handed grip on the pistol, pushing the selector to the 3-round-burst mode. He aimed and fired.

His target in the window jerked back, then sagged as the 3-round burst took him in the chest. Bolan rapidly tracked the pistol’s aim and put a 3-round burst into both front tires, the van swerving wildly as both tires blew. The rest of the windshield collapsed as he put three more bursts into the van’s interior. The driver flopped against the wheel, and the vehicle suddenly skewed sideways and rolled. The Executioner dropped the empty machine pistol and took the wheel. He pulled ahead, then hit the brakes, bringing the Mustang to a smoking stop by the center divider. Behind them, the three vans were stopped in a two-hundred-yard radius. One lay on its side and leaked fuel over the road. The first van’s interior still smoked and burned from the grenade blast. The other van had come to a miraculous stop in the middle of the freeway and sat idling. A thousand yards back, traffic had come to a halt, and a wall of cars idled across the lanes and looked at the carnage before them. The traffic ahead had prudently accelerated away, and the freeway stretched out abandoned in front of them.

Bolan surveyed the vans. Nothing moved. He got out of the Mustang and pulled his M-4 carbine from the back seat and pushed in a new magazine. He worked the grenade launcher’s breech and slid in a round. Jerking his head toward the back seat of the Mustang, he said, “You’d better radio this in. Then we’ll check for survivors.”

The agent seemed slightly dazed. “Oh, right. I’m on it.” She reached behind her for the police-band tactical radio packed in her bag.

Bolan scanned the area. Somewhere, either behind or ahead of them, was the observation vehicle. Its passengers would be reporting what had transpired to their superiors.

The ghost of a smile crossed the Executioner’s face. He suspected he’d blown his cover as an observer.

CHAPTER 7

Guy Tell stood in the warehouse, brow furrowed. Jon-Jon Smythe lay on a folding table and gritted his teeth as a medic teased the bullet out of his arm with a probe. Bandages covered the numerous cuts on his face and hands, and his massive torso was tightly bound with medical tape to hold his broken ribs. Byron Short looked on, his bandaged leg propped up on a folding chair. Tell’s lips tightened, and his index finger tapped irritably on the cellular phone in his hand. Things weren’t going well, and he was definitely not looking forward to making the phone call.

He took a deep breath. Hesitating wouldn’t help matters. He snapped open the phone and punched in the numbers. It was answered on the first ring.

“Report.”

Tell chose to speak in English. “Failure.”

Short and Smythe looked up sharply.

The man’s voice was terse. “I am aware of that. We have the Miami evening paper delivered here, and I have seen the results of your efforts on the news channel. It appears that you have had something of a disaster.”

Tell grimaced. The voice continued. “I had every faith in you, Guy. How did this happen?”

“The men fought very bravely.”

Smythe half rose from the makeshift operating table and stabbed his finger at Tell. “And that’s the truth!”

The man’s tone was grim as he went on. “Yet they failed, and it was you, my friend, who were in command.”

Tell’s knuckles tightened on the receiver. “You are correct. I was in command, and the mission was a failure. I take full responsibility. However, combat is always uncertain, and we ran into unexpected difficulties.”

There was a pause. “Oh?”

“Yes. The DEA agent and the observer were not in a standard rental vehicle, as one would expect of federal employees. They were driving a powerful sports car, and the man behind the wheel was an excellent driver, well trained in defensive driving tactics. Both of them were heavily armed with automatic weapons, including a grenade launcher with military munitions. It was obvious they were expecting the attack.”

There was a second, lengthier pause. “Very well, Guy. You have never failed us before, and I accept your report as you have given it. However, the fact remains that the DEA agent and this observer remain alive and a threat to our operation. Now, even more of our Jamaican friends are dead or in jail. Street soldiers we can always replace, but we cannot easily afford to lose men like Mr. Clarendon and Mr. Smythe.”

“Mr. Smythe is with me now. He was wounded in the firefight, and his vehicle crashed and rolled. He managed to extricate himself and make it over the guardrail. I picked him up and am seeing to his medical treatment as we speak.”

“Where are you now?”

“At the warehouse in Coral Gables. Mr. Short is here, as well.” Tell paused. “What are your orders?”

The man snorted. “Are the man and the woman agent dead, Mr. Tell?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you know your orders.”

Tell nodded. He had expected a much worse reprimand. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Go ahead.”

“This man is no observer. He is a trained killer, and skillful. Let me handle him. Personally.”

The voice on the phone was curt. “No. You are much too valuable to risk on such an endeavor.”

Tell frowned. “As you wish. However, I feel that drive-by shootings or assaults will only get more of our associates killed. Our men here in the United States are brave fighters, but they are not trained soldiers. I believe we must change tactics.”

“How so?”

“Let me do this. Quietly, personally, then it will be finished. The man and the woman will be dead, after divulging everything they know about the operation against us.”

“I accept your assessment, but I will not have you risking yourself. You are too important to the operation, particularly now that we appear to be under attack.”

“Then what do you propose we do?”

“I will send for Jakob. He is nearly as clever in these matters as you.”

Tell brightened. “An excellent suggestion. When shall I expect him?”

“I will have him on a plane to you in forty-eight hours.”

“Good. I will contact you when he has arrived.”

“I look forward to it.”

Tell snapped the phone shut. Smythe turned his head and looked at him. “What’s the word?”

Tell smiled. “We are being sent some assistance.”

“What kind of assistance?” Short asked.

“Efficient assistance. I believe you will be impressed.” Tell’s smile widened. It Would be good to see Jakob again.

The old man was right. Jakob was nearly as clever as he was.

DEA Special Agent In Charge Teresa Antonio sat at her desk and wondered what she had done to deserve any of this. She was a small, dark-haired woman, with dark eyes and an elfin face. But there was nothing elf-like in her demeanor. The Miami division office was swamped with calls about the freeway massacre, and Antonio peered at the two individuals responsible for it.

Special Agent Charles sat with her hands in her lap. Antonio had called up her file and found that Charles was a field agent with an outstanding record who had qualified for the elite DEA interdiction teams. As Charles smiled at her innocently, Antonio distinctly felt a headache coming on.

She shifted her attention to Mr. Belasko. The man was examining one of her citations on the wall, the one she had earned for bravery while she had been an undercover agent. He nodded at it, then turned to look at her. Antonio almost flinched when they locked eyes, but years of undercover work had steeled her reflexive behavior. The man absolutely radiated command authority.

He leaned back in his chair slightly. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”

Antonio snorted. “I received a phone call last night at my home, telling me to expect a special agent from New York and a Justice Department observer in the morning. I’m told to extend you every courtesy and give you my division office’s full cooperation. You’re barely off the plane for ten minutes, and there are nine dead and four wounded hard-core Jamaican street soldiers littering the Miami freeway. You’ve sort of become a priority.” She spread her hands. “So how may I be of assistance?”

“I need to see everything you have on the Jamaican drug posses involved in running Jamaican Flake. Files, photos and ongoing investigations,” the big man said. “I have to advise you that the ongoing DEA operation in New York in this matter has been compromised. As you might have guessed, our friends were waiting for us at the airport. The New York and Florida drug rings are connected, and I strongly suspect they have made inroads into the operations against them in Florida, as well.”

Antonio frowned. “I run a tight ship, Mr. Belasko. Those are very serious allegations.”

The big man’s eyes blazed with intensity. “Can you personally guarantee that none of the agents in your division have been compromised?”

Antonio gritted her teeth. Both of them already knew the answer to that question. “No.”

“I didn’t come here to cast stones,” Bolan said, “but the problem is real. I would like to keep knowledge of Agent Charles’s and my activities as quiet as possible. Any information regarding our operation must be held on a need-to-know basis. Requests for materiel and manpower may come at a moment’s notice and must be met immediately.”

Antonio tapped the desktop in front of her. The situation before her was a mystery, and she didn’t like it at all. However, her choice was clear to her. She nodded.

“I’m at your disposal,” she replied. “Twenty-four hours a day.”

The man was sweating heavily as he pressed the dumbbells over his head. Veins stood out in his massive arms, and his face was locked in a grimace of effort. The two-hundred-pound weights rose over his head for a sixth time as the telephone rang.

He dropped the dumbbells to the floor, where they bounced with a satisfying thud on the thick rubber matting. He rose from his seat on the bench and walked to the phone. He was wearing only rubber sandals and the pants of a white cotton gi that was tied at the waist with a frayed black belt. He glanced at himself in the mirror for a moment, admiring his powerful form, then picked up the receiver.

“Yes?”

“Jakob?”

The man smiled. “Yes, how are you?”

“I am well. But we are having some difficulties.”

“I had heard that.”

“I believe they require your services.”

Jakob peered out the window of his private gymnasium at the snow-capped mountains that surrounded the chalet. “Cannot Tell handle the situation?”

“He could, but he has other things to take care of. I would like you to do it.”

Jakob sighed. “I am at your disposal. When?”

“At once. I am wiring you a plane ticket to Florida.” Jakob was taken aback. “Florida? I had heard the problem was in New York.”

“It was. Now it has followed the trail to Florida. I fear it may continue to head south, which is why I would like you to take care of it.”

“I see. I will prepare to leave immediately.”

“Good. I am glad I can count on you.”

Jakob made a fist and flexed his bicep, smiling as the veins in his forearm bulged beneath the skin. “Consider your problem solved.”

CHAPTER 8

Mack Bolan and Elizabeth Charles sat across from each other at a table covered with maps, photographs, files and guns. The evening breeze blew into the hotel room from the beach, rustling the curtains.

Bolan tapped a finger on the file photo of a powerful-looking man who glared at the camera through a veil of beaded dreadlocks. “Jon-Jon Smythe is our key here in Florida. He gets us to the next piece of the puzzle.”

Charles nodded. “Yeah, but how do we find him?”

“They want us dead. We can let them come to us.”

“Sounds pretty damn passive, to me, and risky. I don’t like the idea of giving them another shot at us. We might not see them coming next time.”

“Unless,” Bolan said, “we give them an opportunity of our own devising.”

Charles raised her eyebrows questioningly.

Bolan continued. “The Jamaicans will be angry. They were hit twice in New York, hard. We followed them and gave them a bloody nose here in Florida when they came after us on the freeway. They can’t let that go unanswered. They have to come for us. Whoever is backing them must be nervous, as well. They don’t know how much or how little we know. Drug dealers can’t afford to let themselves be pushed around. They’ll act. They have to. It’s the nature of their business.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, Belasko,” Charles said. “So, what do we do next?”

Bolan picked up the Beretta 93-R from the table and checked the action.

“Get a new car. Go have dinner.” The pistol’s slide cracked into battery as he closed the action. “And expose ourselves.”

Guy Tell stood with Jon-Jon Smythe at the gate at Miami International Airport. Smythe’s arm was in a sling, and it was obvious his ribs pained him, but the big Jamaican had insisted on coming. Tell grinned as Jakob came through the gate.

Smythe’s eyes widened slightly when he saw the man. He was very nearly six-and-a-half-feet tall, and built like an Olympic wrestler. Smythe was six foot three and weighed more than two hundred fifty pounds, and he was used to being the largest and strongest man in a crowd. But as he watched Jakob, he felt a twinge of intimidation. It was more than just the man’s size—it was the way he carried himself, the look in his eyes as he moved with utter assurance through the crowd. The man was a stone killer.

Tell and Jakob shook hands heartily. “It is good to see you, my friend,” Tell said in German.

“And you, my friend,” Jakob replied.

Smythe watched as the two men greeted each other, laughing and joking in their native tongue.

Tell switched to English. “Where are my manners? Jakob, this is our associate, Mr. Smythe. His services to our endeavors have been invaluable.”

Jakob looked down at the Jamaican for a moment, his pale blue eyes unreadable, then he nodded affably and spoke in precise, accented English. “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Smythe.”

“I am pleased to meet you, too,” Smythe responded.

As they walked to the baggage carousel to collect Jakob’s luggage, the big man cast a sidelong glance at Smythe. “Is this the man who failed us?” he asked Tell, sliding back into his native language.

“I was in command. The responsibility is mine,” Tell replied. “Smythe and his men fought bravely. He, himself, took a bullet in the shoulder and broke three ribs when his vehicle rolled, but he managed to get away before the police arrived. That was less than three days ago, yet he insisted on coming here to meet you. They were simply outclassed,” he finished.

“They were sloppy.”

“If you mean their methods are messy, I agree with you. Our Jamaican friends prefer their hits to be extremely violent and out in the open. It spreads fear among their enemies. So far, it has worked spectacularly in establishing territory for our operation. However, it now appears that we are not dealing with rival gangs or bumbling cops anymore. It seems we have encountered our first real opposition.”

Jakob nodded. “So naturally you sent for me. A wise choice.” Tell smiled but said nothing.

Jakob went on. “I was told I have two targets. A man, apparently some kind of professional, and a woman DEA agent.

His friend nodded. “That is correct. They are currently booked into a hotel in the Miami Beach area. The woman is a DEA field agent. We have acquired her file through our contact. It appears she qualified for the DEA’s interdiction teams and has martial arts training in tac kwon do. Currently a brown belt, I believe. The man, quite frankly, is an enigma. But through my own direct observation, I can tell you he is extremely proficient with small arms and has defensive driving skills. He is approximately Smythe’s height and powerfully built. I would be surprised if he does not have extensive hand-to-hand-combat training of some sort.”

Jakob nodded with apparent unconcern. “I will get whatever information they have out of them, and then I will kill them.

CHAPTER 9

Mack Bolan pulled the rented convertible IROC-Z out of the restaurant parking lot. The dark green vehicle with its white leather top was slightly less conspicuous than their original rental had been. The red convertible Mustang had been riddled with bullet holes and had been impounded as evidence by the Dade County sheriff’s department.

The eight-cylinder turbocharged engine purred as Bolan shifted into second gear. Agent Charles sat happily in the passenger seat tapping her hands on the dashboard.

The Miami streets were alive with people enjoying the evening breeze that swept in from the ocean. Bolan glanced in the rearview mirror as they drove leisurely toward the hotel and scanned the road behind them. “We’ve picked up two tails.”

Charles didn’t turn. “Anyone we know?”

“I would bet one of them is the local cops, probably on the request of Agent Antonio. I suspect she wants us watched, ostensibly under the cover of protecting us. They’re not trying very hard to remain anonymous, either.”

“And the others?”

“Our friends.”

“What’s the plan?”

“Be ready.”

Guy Tell snapped shut his cellular phone. “They are moving.”

Jakob nodded as he checked the contents of a small flat aluminum suitcase, then closed and locked it.

“They have left the restaurant. Our men are already positioned at the hotel.”

Jakob looked out of their own hotel room window at the Miami skyline. “I will be there in five minutes and in position within ten.”

“Excellent.”

The big man took his case and exited the hotel room, leaving Tell to his thoughts. The old man had given him a direct order not to get involved in this action. Tell had great faith in Jakob’s abilities and his methods. But, frankly, he preferred his own, and the American observer made him very nervous. He reached under the bed and pulled out a long, flat, hard leather case. He flipped up the latches and opened it. If he wasn’t needed, that would be fine with him, but it was always better to be safe than sorry. He reached into the case and started to assemble his rifle.

The components of the Swiss SIG SSG 550 semiautomatic sniper rifle lay in form-fitting sections of packing. Tell picked up the receiver, attached the folding stock, then slid the heavy, threaded, twenty-two-inch match-grade barrel into the receiver and locked it into place. The foregrip, with its built-in bipod, snugged into position, and he tightened it with a wrench. The Schmidt and Bender 1.5-6x42 variable power telescopic sight clicked firmly onto its claw mounts on the receiver, and he dialed it to maximum magnification. He slid the long tube of the sound suppressor over the rifle’s muzzle and screwed it tightly onto its threads. Looking over the assembled rifle with satisfaction, he locked the folding stock open and brought the rifle to his shoulder. Spacers had been added to the butt of the stock, making the rifle’s length of pull perfect for his arms.

Tell sighted out the window. The Miami night was brightly lit, and the scope gathered up the ambient light even more. The scope was presighted to the rifle, and the third-floor window of Agent Charles’s hotel came into sharp focus three hundred yards away. He tracked his aim, bringing the window of the American observer’s adjoining room into his sights. He let his finger rest on the sensitive double-pull trigger for a moment, before lowering the rifle. Extracting a plastic, 20-round magazine from the case, he pushed it into the rifle’s magazine well and racked the action. A full-metal jacket NATO military SS-M109 .223-caliber cartridge slid into the chamber as the bolt locked into battery. He flicked on the SIG’s safety, then sat in a chair, with the rifle across his knees.

He would have much preferred to kill the Americans his way and be done with it. However, the old man wanted information first. Tell was a shooter, whereas Jakob, he knew, liked to work up close. He would have felt better if he could have at least accompanied Jakob on the mission to back him up, but the old man had spoken, so there was nothing to do but wait. Jakob could do his work, then the two of them would toast the old man’s health together.

Bolan pulled the car into the hotel parking lot, sliding into a space in clear view of the street. One of the cars tailing them—a four-door sedan and clearly the police vehicle—continued past a moment later and kept going. The second vehicle was a black Cadillac with tinted windows, and it stopped and parked across from the hotel in the shadows of a dimly lit side street.

“Here we go,” the Executioner said, drawing the Beretta 93-R from its shoulder leather and pushing the selector switch to 3-round-burst mode. He folded his jacket over his gun arm as he got out of the car. Charles kept her purse by her side, its flap held up and her right hand resting in the bag’s opening. Across the street, the Cadillac’s doors opened and four men got out, their dreadlocks identifying them in the gloom.

The other tailing car had parked farther along the street, and two men got out. Bolan recognized one of them from the DEA division office. As he and Charles moved toward the front of the hotel, four more Jamaicans rounded the corner down the street and started to walk toward them.

The trap was closing.

In his peripheral vision, Bolan could see the first group of Jamaicans crossing the street to get behind them. Farther up, the two DEA agents by the sedan reached under their jackets. In front of the hotel, two men stood smoking cigarettes, but as the parties began to converge, their hands moved toward concealed weapons. The Executioner noted a pair of stone urns containing potted trees in front of the hotel’s revolving door, and he whispered to Charles. “The urns. Use them for cover.”

Across the street, the two DEA agents had taken cover at either end of their vehicle. The two men in front of the hotel shifted closer to the curb. One of them shot Bolan a subtle nod as he made eye contact, and mouthed D-E-A. The four Jamaicans heading down the sidewalk came straight on. The Executioner did a rapid calculation. The first two gunners would obstruct the ones in the rear of the four-man formation. He could put a 3-round burst into each one, then take cover behind the urns. If the DEA agents were any good, they could put both groups of Jamaicans into a crossfire.

The two agents moved out from the hotel slightly, placing themselves nearer cover offered by two parked cars.

Bolan brought around his coat-concealed pistol. Things were about to get very interesting.

One of the Jamaicans walking toward Bolan raised his hand and waved, at the same time calling out, “Hey, man.”

From behind Bolan came a laugh. “Hey, what are you doing around here, you rude boy?” one of the other Jamaicans responded.

Bolan kept his finger on the Beretta’s trigger as he maneuvered himself and Charles under the hotel awning, putting an urn between them and the two groups of converging men. The two agents had moved from the curb to duck between the cars. With their attention fixed on the Jamaicans, one agent had his hand under his coat, while the other man’s hand had gone to the small of his back. The two groups of Jamaicans converged and began to greet one another. One man in the rear glanced across the street at the agents behind their sedan, and he seemed to grin at them mockingly. The Jamaicans chatted among themselves for a moment, before the group broke up, each foursome continuing on in opposite directions. As they passed, each man managed to look long and hard at Bolan and Charles. Then the first group disappeared up the street, the second crossing at the crosswalk, taking the first group’s car and slowly driving away down the dark side street.

One of the agents between the cars let out an audible sigh of relief. “Geez, that was close.” The other took his hand out from behind his back and turned to Bolan. “Tom Dagger, DEA.” He jerked his head toward the man with him. “My partner, Special Agent Leonard Stokes.”

Stokes nodded, and Bolan heard a click under the agent’s jacket as he put his pistol back on safe.

“You sure attract some fun company,” Dagger said, smiling ruefully. “We were expecting maybe a drive-by shooting, not an infantry marching at us.” He signaled to the two men across the street, and they got into their sedan. He turned back to Bolan. “Are you two going anywhere else tonight?”

The Executioner shook his head. “No, we’re turning in.”

“Good. We’ll be sticking around though, just in case.”

Bolan and Charles headed into the hotel lobby. “I thought for sure we were going to have a barn burner on our hands,” Charles said. “What do you think spooked them?”

“They saw that we had backup and maybe didn’t like the odds or being caught out in the open like that. Or maybe they were the ones trying to spook us.”

Charles shook her head. “Well, they sure as hell spooked me.”

Bolan smiled. “Get some sleep. I think we’re going to have a big day tomorrow.”

“What about you?”

“I have to make a phone call, and I’d rather use a pay phone.”

Charles watched the big man move to the phone booths in the lobby, then she took the elevator to the third floor. As she took out her key, she wondered again just who Belasko really was. He had to be CIA paramilitary—it was the only angle that figured. She closed the door behind her and locked it. As she turned on the light, something blurred in front of her face and cinched with sickening tightness around her neck.

Instinctively she tried to throw herself backward and hurl an elbow into her attacker, but a knee pressed hard against the small of her back, holding her body forward while her neck bowed back. The garrote cinched even tighter, and her vision began to led helplessly. She could neither strike nor kick, the noose around her throat and the knee in her back keeping her in an agonizing position with zero leverage. The blood hammered in her temples as her knees buckled. She tried to go for the gun in her purse, but a hand yanked her bag off her shoulder and flung it away. Then her body stopped obeying her and her vision tunneled down into black as she slumped unconscious to the floor.

10

Aaron Kurtzman answered the phone on the first ring. “Morning, Mack.”

Bolan’s voice came over the phone. “What have you got for me?”

“Not as much as I’d like. Damn little, actually.” The computer expert glanced at the telexes, maps and computer printouts spread across the table in Stony Man Farm’s briefing room. His search had generated a great deal of paper, but little in the way of solid facts. “I have some information on the Jamaicans.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“We’re assuming that Jamaican Flake is being manufactured outside the United States, probably in the Caribbean. Jamaican posses are being used as the muscle and the distributors stateside, so we’re going to assume that it’s being manufactured in Jamaica. It’s a big operation, and Jamaican Flake is a complicated drug to manufacture, so the initial outlay must have been expensive. We’re going to assume an outside party is in financial partnership with the Jamaicans.”

“Any guesses?”

Kurtzman scratched his beard. “I have some guesses about who it isn’t. I don’t believe it’s the Colombians. There’s just too much animosity between them, the South American cartels and the Jamaican posses. They had violent feuds over territory in both New York and Florida in the crack trade, now Jamaican Flake has created new ones. The same is true with the Mafia. The Jamaicans took territory from them in the eighties, and the Italians are still angry about it.”

“What about the Russian Mafiya?”

“That was my first guess. The Mafiya certainly has the money, and there are a lot of Russian scientists out of work in the new Russian Republic. But it doesn’t seem to fit. The Jamaican crime concerns are very clannish. They have to know and trust someone very deeply before they’ll work with them. I’ve searched Internal records, and there’s no past record of any Russian Mafiya activity in the Caribbean.”

“There’s always a first time.”

“True, but I don’t think it’s the Russians. They don’t like to work with outside people. They’re like the Jamaicans that way. They’re clannish, and, they like to take over other people’s territory or create their own niches. I can’t see them joining forces with the Jamaicans and operating out of the Caribbean.”

“Give me your best guess.”

“I’d say a European concern, western European. Someone organized, with access to a lot of money and high quality pharmaceutical laboratories. The people running this operation are highly professional. They’re acting more like businessmen than your typical crime syndicate.”

“You said you might have something, on the Jamaican end.”

“Just this. If the drug is being manufactured in Jamaica, then King George should have his hand in it.”

Kurtzman could almost hear Bolan mentally flipping through his files. “George Percival Heron,” the Executioner finally said. “The DEA didn’t have much on him. He’s big in growing and running marijuana out of Jamaica and bringing in heroin and guns.”

“That’s him. If there’s a big operation going on in Jamaica, his fingers ought to be in it somewhere. Both Clarence Clarendon and Jon-Jon Smythe were known associates of his back home before they came to the United States. But, like I said, Mack, this is all guesswork. We don’t have anything concrete tying anyone to anything. How are things on your end?”

“They almost took a shot at us tonight, but something scared them off,” Bolan said. “Keep working the European connection. I trust your hunches. As soon as I have anything new, I’ll contact you.”

Kurtzman nodded into the phone. “Likewise. Take care.”

The computer expert hung up the phone and absently tapped a finger as he spoke aloud. “Europeans …”

Bolan replayed his conversation with Kurtzman as he rode the elevator to the third floor of the hotel. A western European syndicate in league with the Jamaican posses. The union made for curious bedfellows. The question was, knowing the clan-like structure of the Jamaican posses, who would they trust enough to go into business with?

The Executioner unlocked his door, closing it behind him. He reached for the light, then paused. Instincts trained and sharpened on a hundred battlefields came alert at a vague scent and the sound of another person’s stifled breathing. Someone was in the room.

The Executioner whirled as a shadow passed over his face, and he instinctively raised his right arm. Fabric burned across his forearm as the noose violently cinched and pinned the Executioner’s wrist against his neck. He drove backward against his assailant, ramming him against the wall. Swinging his free arm, he hurled his attacker over his hip to the floor.

His assailant was huge, yet he fell into the throw without resisting. Bolan ducked his head, and the garrote scraped his face as he slipped out of it. The noose cinched tightly onto his forearm, and in that split-second Bolan realized his attacker had allowed himself to be thrown. His opponent rolled his massive bulk in a judo sacrifice maneuver. The soldier was already leaning forward, and his attacker used his rolling weight and the momentum generated by the throw to drag him off his feet using the noose around his wrist.

Bolan hit the ground rolling and came up in a crouch, but his opponent was already on top of him. The Executioner drove his bound right hand into the man’s chest to hold him back while he tried to draw the Beretta from under his left arm with his left hand. His fingers found the pistol’s grips just as his adversary seized his wrist. The Beretta was ripped out of his hands and sent spinning away to the floor. The garrote around the Executioner’s wrist suddenly loosened as the man grabbed Bolan’s shirt with both hands, pulling himself forward. In the next instant, the soldier was sent sailing over the man’s shoulder. He hit the floor and rolled. Knowing his adversary was moving in for the kill, he drew his Tanto fighting knife, the seven-inch blade rasping as it cleared the sheath behind his back.

His assailant paused at the sound.

The two men stood for a moment, breathing heavily as they regarded each other in the gloom. Silhouetted against the light from the window, the man’s immense frame seemed to fill the room. Bolan realized the confrontation with the Jamaicans outside had been a feint to take him and Charles off-guard while the trap was laid inside. He could only assume the agent had already been ambushed.

Bolan shifted his stance slightly. The 9 mm snub-nosed Centennial revolver practically burned to be drawn from his ankle holster, but Bolan knew that the moment it would take to drop and draw it could be his last. He had already seen his assailant’s whip-like speed and felt his strength.

The man suddenly lunged. Bolan lashed out with the fighting knife, and its razor edge sliced deeply into his attacker’s forearm as he blocked. Again, it was a sacrifice. The giant ignored the cut and sank his fingers into Bolan’s biceps. The Executioner felt his fingers open nervelessly, and the knife dropped from his hand. He blocked his adversary’s reaching hand, and as their arms locked, he drove his knee into the pit of the man’s stomach with all his strength.

The big man only grunted and seized Bolan’s other arm. The Executioner tried to knee him in the groin but the man blocked with his thigh. For a moment Bolan tried to pull away. As his assailant yanked him back, the Executioner suddenly let himself be pulled forward, and then snapped his forehead into the man’s face with every ounce of strength in his neck and shoulders.

Stars exploded across the Executioner’s vision, but he felt his opponent’s bones break under the blow. The man’s grip weakened, and Bolan pulled his arms free. The man staggered back a step, raising a hand drunkenly to his broken face. With an adversary that powerful, there was no room for mercy, and the Executioner stiffened his hands into blunt axes and drove forward.

Whipping his arm around in a vicious arc, he struck with the knife edge of his hand into the side of his opponent’s neck. The giant raised his hands to block, and as he did so, Bolan’s knee slammed into his groin. His adversary doubled over in agony, and Bolan struck into the back of the giant’s neck with all of the power in his body. The man collapsed to the ground.

Bolan dropped to one knee beside his fallen opponent. He raised his hand for a finishing blow, but the giant lay unmoving. The Executioner felt for a pulse at the man’s throat. There was none. He levered himself to a standing position, his thoughts immediately going to Elizabeth.

Pulling the Centennial from its ankle holster, he moved toward the adjoining door. If someone was in the room, the person couldn’t have failed to hear the crashing of the struggle. Bolan’s black rifle case lay where he had left it. He dialed the combination and silently flipped the latches. Popping open the case, he ran his hands over the M-4 Ranger carbine. Its 30-round magazine was in place, and a 40-mm CS tear-gas grenade was locked in the attached launcher tube. He flicked the selector to the 3-round-burst mode as he rose and put his boot into the interior door.

The door flew back on its hinges, and Bolan swept the darkened room with the rifle’s muzzle. He strained his senses as the evening breeze rustled the curtains through the open window. He could smell the DEA agent’s perfume. He moved to one side of the bed. Charles lay gagged and tied in the corner. Bolan pulled the gag out of her mouth and whispered, “How many?”

She had to swallow before she could speak. “Only one, but he was plenty.”

Bolan tested the knots on her bindings. The man had done an excellent job. He rose. “I’ll have to get my knife. Hold on.”

“At least, turn on the light.”

The soldier walked to the standing floor lamp and touched the switch. Charles raised her chin off the carpet as she called out to him plaintively. “I’ve got a knife in my purse.” She jerked her head. “On the chair.”

As Bolan bent to pick up the purse, sparks shrieked off the lamp. The Executioner flung himself to the floor, and plaster spattered as a line of impacts tracked him along the wall. He rolled and scissored the lamp with his ankles. The unit toppled to the floor, shattering the bulb. He rolled deeper into the room toward the window, then popped up, shouldering his carbine. Out the window, he could see another hotel that faced theirs some two hundred yards away. He scanned the other building through the open window and gauged trajectory. The floor lamp had stood by the wall, deep in the room. The shot that mangled it had struck at nearly head level. The sniper had to be nearly level with them, as well.

Three rooms presented themselves in the distance. The first two had their curtains drawn. The third was darkened, but the curtains blew inward with the ocean breeze. The window was open.

Bolan flipped up the M-203 grenade launcher’s ladder sight and fired.

Guy Tell quickly began to disassemble his rifle. He slid the suppressor tube from the barrel and placed it in his rifle case. His face was a study in anger. He had missed his target, and Jakob, too, had failed. It seemed almost inconceivable, unless Jakob had broken contact for some reason. The only acceptable explanation didn’t bear thinking about.

He looked up with a start as a muffled boom echoed from across the street and his target’s hotel room was momentarily lit up in a strobe of orange fire. His eyes widened. No one had cleared the use of explosives. He jerked back suddenly, his rifle leveled, as something tore through the curtains, slammed into the wall, then bounced to the floor behind him. A loud hissing issued from the object, and for an instant he caught a faint odor of pepper.

Tell took a step forward, then his head snapped backward. Tears welled up in his eyes, and a slow burn began in the base of his eye sockets. He gasped involuntarily, and his throat and lungs began to sear as if he were breathing hot smoke. He staggered toward his rifle case, tears streaming from his burning eyes. He tried to hold his breath, but it was impossible. He began to cough violently, each new breath a torture. He reached blindly for the rifle case, but it slid off of the bed as his knee slammed into it. He knew the open window would offer him relief, but if his target had a rifle, he would be a sitting duck, and it would be minutes before he, himself, could accurately fire his weapon.

He had to get out. Clutching his rifle, he staggered blindly toward the door. His hand groped and found the knob. Flinging open the door, he plunged into the hall. A woman in the hallway screamed, but Tell could see her only as a blur through his streaming eyes.

Another door opened and a man roared in indignation, “What the hell is going on out here?” Down the hall behind him another man yelled. The situation was out of control.

Tell raised his rifle. “Everyone get down!” he shouted as he fired five rounds into the ceiling as fast as he could pull the trigger. Without the suppressor, the blast of the high-pressure .223-caliber NATO rounds was deafening in the hallway. The woman screamed again, then slammed her door shut as Tell began to stagger down the corridor. He remembered that the stairs were down the hall and to the right. His eyes still burned and streamed, but his vision started to clear slightly in the clean air of the hallway. He needed water to wash out his eyes, but there was no time. He had no doubt his quarry was coming after him. He snarled with rage and pain as he flung open the door to the stairwell. He had become the quarry.

11

Mack Bolan sat in Special Agent in Charge Antonio’s office while the woman glared at him.

“You fired a grenade from one hotel window to another?”

Bolan nodded. “Yes.”

“Ballistics says the bullets were fired from a suppressed rifle. How did you see the muzzle-flashes?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t.”

Antonio stared at him. “Then how did you know?”

“The bullet trajectories suggested that the sniper had to be nearly level with our room. The window I chose was the only one open.”

“But what if you were wrong?”

“It wasn’t an offensive grenade.”

Antonio began to say something, then she stopped. Bolan switched the subject. “What did the preliminary autopsy and crime scene experts have to say?”

“A deceased Caucasian male was found in your hotel room. Six foot six, two hundred and seventy-five pounds. His fingerprints aren’t in the files of the DEA or the FBI. He brought a small case with him into your room. It contained a silenced 9 mm SIG-Sauer pistol, two magazines of heavy, subsonic ammunition, an assortment of physical restraints, three sets of sterile rubber gloves, a 120,000-volt stun gun, a butane lighter, a very sharp hunting knife, and a pair of pliers.” The agent peered at Bolan. “Apparently he wanted to know about you as much as I do.”

“I don’t doubt it. What do you have on the sniper?”

“Several witnesses got a good look at him, and our sketch artist put together a composite.” She reached into a file folder and handed Bolan the sketch.

The man’s face was long and thin with high cheekbones and a nose that had clearly once been broken. The mouth was thin-lipped, and the jaw surprisingly heavy.

Antonio read off the accompanying sheet. “Approximately six-and-a-half-feet tall, around two hundred and ten pounds, described as lanky rather than thin. Well-dressed. There was some discrepancy about his eyes, attributable to swelling, redness and tearing from the tear gas you hit him with. He shouted a few words, and the witnesses said he spoke with some kind of accent, probably European. They differ on his armament. One said he had a machine gun, another said he had a rifle. Initial ballistic reports point toward some kind of accurized .223-caliber semiautomatic rifle. He left a sound suppressor in his room along with a rifle case.”

Bolan took a card from his wallet with a forwarding address that would reach Stony Man Farm on a priority basis. “I’d like you to send all evidence collected from the two hotel rooms to this location as soon as possible.”

“That’s evidence of a federal crime committed within my jurisdiction,” Antonio protested, then sighed. “I know. I am to extend full courtesy and render all assistance to the Justice Department observer and visiting Agent Charles in their investigation.”

“I know this is irregular, and that I’m stepping on toes, but time is of the essence, and I have access to resources you don’t.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Antonio’s face assumed a cool demeanor. “I’ll have all evidence, except the corpse, prepped and shipped within the hour.”

“Thank you.”

“Is there anything else I can do to assist you, Mr. Belasko?”

Bolan nodded. “I need everything you have on file for King George Heron and his operation in Jamaica.”

Guy Tell snapped open his phone and punched in some numbers. He waited impatiently while it rang several times. Jon-Jon Smythe and Byron Short looked on, but he ignored them. The phone continued to ring, and Tell’s face tightened. He knew the old man had a phone with him at all times.

When it was finally answered, the old man’s voice was curt. “What is it?”

“Has Jakob reported in?”

There was a pause. “You have heard nothing?”

“I have remained at the warehouse since I broke contact with the target.”

The old man’s tone was mocking. “That is wise, my friend, particularly since you allowed yourself to be observed fleeing the scene with a high-powered rifle in your hands and reeking of tear gas. A rather accurate description of you is now circulating among local, state and federal police agencies.”

Tell’s knuckles whitened on the instrument, but his voice remained level. “Jakob has not reported here. Has he reported to you?”

“No, but I have word of him.”

“I presume we will make attempts to have him freed?”

“That will not be necessary.”

Tell frowned. “I do not understand.”

“Jakob is dead.”

Tell’s jaw dropped. “I do not understand,” he said again, “What went wrong?”

“According to my contact, nothing went wrong. Jakob did it his way. He took the woman, and he attempted to take the man. The man beat him.”

Tell stammered as the import of this hit him. “I … how?”

“Our contact has faxed me a copy of the coroner’s initial autopsy. According to the report, Jakob’s left cheekbone was shattered. He suffered severe trauma to the left external jugular vein, left internal carotid artery and trachea. There was fairly deep blunt trauma bruising to the abdominal wall. A blow to his groin herniated his right testicle, resulting in the hemorrhage of his urinary tract. Cause of death was a blow to the back of the neck, fracturing the second cervical vertebra and severing the spinal cord.”

The room seemed to spin around Tell. The old man’s voice went on. “it appears that this Justice Department observer defeated Jakob in hand-to-hand combat.”

“I simply cannot believe it.”

“I agree. It is almost inconceivable. Nearly as inconceivable as you disobeying orders, allowing yourself to be defeated, and then observed by witnesses.”

“What are your orders?”

“I want this man dead. He is becoming a genuine threat to our operations. I believe it is time we used our contact. We will give this American bait he cannot resist.”

“What kind of bait?”

“We will give him what he wants. Information.”

“I see. And when he takes it?”

“We destroy him with overwhelming force. Mr. Smythe should be most helpful in that regard.”

“This American is proving rather difficult to destroy.”

“Yes, that is why we will have safeguards to make sure it is done.”

“Do you mean our contact?”

“Yes. It is time our friends in the DEA started earning the money we have been lavishing on them, and a two-pronged attack is always best.”

“I will see to it immediately.”

“Good.”

The phone went dead in Tell’s hand, and he snapped it shut.

Jon-Jon Smythe flexed his fist in its cast and looked at Tell. “Your big rude boy, Mr. Jakob, he is dead.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes, Jakob is dead.”

Smythe peered over the rims of his sunglasses. “But the terminator man and the woman are alive?”

Tell’s lips tightened and he nodded.

“So what are we going to do?”

“You and I are going to set a trap for them. One they won’t be able to escape.”

“How many men will you be requiring?”

“As many as you can get.”

Smythe pushed up his mirrored sunglasses. “Consider it done.

12

Aaron Kurtzman felt rather pleased with himself as he picked up the phone. He finally had something for the big guy.

“I gather you got the materials I sent you,” Bolan said.

“The DEA sent it to the Farm’s Justice Department drop, and Hal had it to us within the hour. John Kissinger and I have been going over it all night. The Cowboy came up with a few things you might find intriguing.”

“Such as?”

Kurtzman glanced at the handgun lying on the table before him. “For starters, the DEA made a mistake in identifying Goliath’s handgun as a SIG-Sauer P-220 automatic.”

“How so?”

“It’s not a SIG-Sauer, it’s just a SIG.” He leaned back in his chair as he warmed to his subject. “SIG is a Swiss arms company. Switzerland has taken a strictly neutral stance in political affairs for centuries, which has affected their arms industry in some funny ways. The Swiss won’t sell weapons to people if they think they’re going to use them, but on the other hand, they have a thriving arms industry, so it makes their weapons exportation laws kind of schizophrenic. SIG-Sauers are extremely popular worldwide with the military, police and the private sectors. To get around their own exportation laws, the SIG company joined with the Sauer company of Germany, and they manufacture the Swiss designs in Germany under the name of SIG-Sauer. From there, SIG-Sauer pistols are exported for sale all over the world.”

“So you’re saying a pistol stamped only SIG was manufactured in Switzerland rather than in Germany.”

“Exactly, and you don’t find too many Swiss-manufactured pistols floating around in the hands of criminals. Frankly you really don’t find too many floating around at all. They just don’t leave the country. The pistol in the hotel room was what you and I would call a P-220, but the Swiss call it a Type 75. The serial numbers have been chemically removed, but I’m betting that Goliath’s gun was former Swiss military.”

“So, what’s your bet on him?”

“Hold on, there’s more. The rifle that the sniper was firing was a .223, firing standard NATO SS-109 match ammo. You indicated it was a semiautomatic, and the photographs of the bullet strike patterns we received from the DEA confirm it. Only two armed forces in the world produce .223-caliber semiautomatic sniper rifles as standard issue. One is the Israelis, and I’ll give you a guess who the other might be.”

“The Swiss.”

“Correct.”

“I like it, Aaron, but it’s still too thin. Even if you’re right, it still doesn’t prove anything. Anybody might have had those weapons, for reasons we don’t know.”

“True, but it dovetails with our sketch of a western European interest getting into bed with the Jamaican posses. For example, where do organized crime types like to put their money?”

“Swiss banks, and offshore banks in the Bahamas and the Cayman Islands.”

“Exactly. A lot of Caribbean islanders aren’t particularly friendly with natives from the other islands. If they’re banking anywhere, I’d bet on Switzerland. Swiss banks are old and have well-established reputations. If the Jamaicans were approached about a new business venture by someone with whom they had been doing mutually profitable business for many years, storing and laundering their money, they might be very interested. Particularly if that group was offering to finance the initial venture and had the capacity to set up the labs.”

“So what we need to find is a high-quality laboratory capable of producing Jamaican Flake somewhere in the Caribbean.”

Kurtzman grinned. “Well, I just happened to run a check on foreign companies operating in Jamaica. The Swiss-based firm Delevaux Pharmaceuticals has a full laboratory, including a small production facility operating in the Jamaican highlands. They specialize in experimental drugs and synthesizing the medical components of some of the new and endangered plants that are being discovered in South America.”

“Do you have anything else?” Bolan asked.

“Not too much. Our resources confirm most of what the DEA has. Goliath’s fingerprints don’t show up on any file we have access to, nor does his description. I’d be willing to bet we might find something if we could access Swiss military records, but we’ve got about a zero percent chance on that.”

“Aaron, our friend Goliath was real good. He had to have been a high-ranking judo expert. See if you can find anything on Swiss judo schools, and check any records for ranking Swiss instructors or European champions. It’s slim, but we might find something.”

“I’ve also done some research on the Swiss military, Mack. Every able-bodied male has to do military service in Switzerland. So, if it’s the Swiss we’re dealing with, all of them will be trained soldiers, even the lab types. As for their special forces soldiers, which our sniper and Goliath might very well be, they’re bad-asses of the highest caliber. In the areas of marksmanship, hand-to-hand combat and escape and evasion, they’re just as good as the United States Army Rangers or Green Berets. They’re some of the most highly regarded commandos in the European theater. If a Swiss-Jamaican crime consortium is using former Swiss special forces troops as security, you’re in for some stiff competition.”

“If it really is them.” Bolan let out a slow breath. “It’s not enough to hand the President. I need more.”

“I’ll run with the judo idea and see if I can turn up anything. The International Judo Federation keeps fairly extensive records on ranked instructors and champions. We might just get a lead from them.”

“Keep me informed. I’ll contact you as soon as I have anything more on my end.”

“Be careful, Mack. If we’re right, these people are professionals, and I think you have their undivided attention.”

The DEA Special Agent set the weapon on the coffee table and glanced at the clock. As the minute hand reached twelve, the phone rang. The agent picked up the receiver, and Guy Tell’s voice came over the line.

“Did you receive the package I sent you?”

The agent peered at the pistol. It was small, and, apart from a few minor cosmetic differences, it looked almost exactly like a pint-size Colt .45 automatic. The word STAR was stamped on the short slide. A single clip containing eight rounds of 9 mm ammunition lay on the table next to it. The bullet at the top of the clip had what looked like a dull green translucent plastic coating through which the bullet’s steel jacket showed. The agent recognized it as armor-piercing ammunition. He also recognized that the gun was sterile. Its purpose was to commit a close-range assassination, then be discarded. It wouldn’t show up on any registry or file. There was nothing on the firearm to tie it to anyone.

“Yes, it came today.”

“Excellent. Do you have any questions about our proposed venture?”

“No, the man I spoke with earlier made the situation perfectly clear.”

“Then you are pleased with the investment package my organization has proposed?”

The DEA agent considered the extra one hundred thousand dollars that would be added to the already considerable amount of money he had under a false name in a Swiss bank.

“it seems likely to be a profitable venture.” The agent certainly hoped so. It was prudent that the Justice Department visitor was far more than an interagency observer, and that he and the special agent with him suspected the DEA Miami division office had a traitor in its midst. The DEA agent would sleep much easier when both of them were dead. “I do hope that the contingency plan you outlined will be unnecessary. I’m already spreading myself a bit thin.”

“I believe our associates are well organized and should be able to take care of the matter. However, I am pleased to know we can rely on you, just in case.”

The agent slipped the loaded magazine into the pistol and racked the action. With a push of his thumb, the safety clicked onto the cocked weapon. “How is the venture progressing?”

“It is already in motion,” Tell replied.

13

Bolan returned from the lobby to find Elizabeth Charles sitting on the edge of his bed speaking rapidly into the phone. She looked up at him excitedly as he walked into the room.

“Antonio’s on the line. We’ve had a breakthrough.”

Bolan took the phone. “Belasko.”

“We’ve had some very interesting developments down at the division office,” Antonio said.

“I’m listening.”

“Byron Short is willing to turn state’s evidence on his friends.”

The Executioner’s eyes narrowed. “That’s hard to believe.”

“I thought so, too, but he says he found out he’s going to be executed for letting the terminator man, which I’m assuming is you, take out half the New York operation. When Clarence Clarendon’s lawyers went to see him in the hospital, just about everyone could hear him raving that Short was a Judas who ran away, leaving his brothers to die. I talked to Byron on the phone. He sounded ready to start spilling his guts.”

“What does he want?”

“The usual—immunity from prosecution, relocation in the witness-protection program. He says he knows that both the New York and the Miami division offices of the DEA have been penetrated. He says he’ll give up his organization’s New York contact, but he doesn’t know who their contact is in Miami.”

“So he doesn’t trust your agents to pick him up.”

“Yes, that’s about it, unless I personally choose them, and he doesn’t want a lot of people. He wants you and Charles there as insurance, and his safety guaranteed until he gets into federal custody. After you killed so many of his friends, he says you’re the only person he feels he can trust. He says he’s pretty sure he knows where you stand.”

“It has a certain logic to it,” Bolan conceded. “Do you have any corroboration through your other informants?”

“The word is that King George has spoken from Jamaica. Byron Short has to die.”

“So, what do you think?”

“It’s a gamble.”

“But you want him.”

“You’re damn right, I want him. If there’s a leak in my division involving the Jamaican Flake posses I’ll bet anything that the agents involved in New York and Florida have been in contact with each other. If Short will give up his New York contact, then we can squeeze that agent for the traitor here in the Miami division. If Short can give me that, then I’m willing to take risks, and I’m willing to deal.”

“It’s Charles and I who’ll be sticking out our necks.”

“I’m willing to accompany you with two of my agents who I trust.”

“Then let’s do it.”

“I’ll tell Short that we are going to bring him in,” Antonio said. “How soon can you come down to the division office?”

“Immediately.”

“I’ll see you then.”

Bolan hung up the phone and turned to Charles. “Did she tell you the whole story?”

The woman nodded. “Yes.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said let’s grab the little bastard and squeeze him for all he’s worth.”

Guy Tell looked out the window of the warehouse for a moment before turning to Jon-Jon Smythe. “How many men did you get?”

“Twenty-five. All soldiers, and armed for Armageddon.” The big man pushed his dreadlocks back from his face. “What about your DEA Judas?”

“If your men fail, then we will play that card. However, I would prefer not to. Our contact is much more useful to us as a source of information than as an assassin.” Tell frowned. “Just see that you do not fail this time.”

Smythe pulled his sunglasses down his nose so that he and Tell could lock eyes. “Don’t talk to me about failing. It’s your great big friend lying in the morgue, and it was your lanky bones running through the streets like the devil himself was after you.”

Tell’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward Smythe, whose good hand curled into a fist.

“Christ!” Byron Short spit. “It’s my neck on the line, and you’re squabbling like old women. Hell, I’ll kill the white boy myself when the time comes.” He stretched his wounded leg. “I owe him.”

Smythe unclenched his fist. “Byron’s right. We need to get ourselves back to business.”

“Damn straight.” Short stood and pulled off his shirt. “Now help me with my preparations.”

Tell watched as Short turned and held up his long dreadlocks. Smythe reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a tiny .25-caliber automatic. He pulled back the slide and let it slam forward, bringing a round into the chamber. He then took a roll of electrical tape off the table. He placed the cocked and loaded pistol between the top of Short’s shoulder blades and began to tear off strips of tape with his teeth. “You’ll keep this pistol here, between your shoulder blades. The tape pulls away easily, so try not to sweat.”

“I’ll be too cool.”

“Let’s hope so.” Smythe finished taping the pistol in place. The little automatic’s barrel pointed down Short’s back, the grips reaching the bottom of his neck. Smythe nodded as he tugged at the pistol for a moment and then patted Short on the back. “There.”

Short let his hair drop over the pistol. Smythe handed him a baggy, dark blue sweatshirt with the neck torn out which Short pulled over his head. He shook out his dreadlocks, then grinned at Tell.

“Slick, hey?”

Tell nodded. It was clever. The carry was virtually invisible, and no cop or Fed was trained to pat down someone’s hair during a routine search of a friendly witness. In the event that someone told Byron to freeze and put his hands behind his head, he’d be able to draw the weapon and take the person out.

Smythe reached into his coat and brought out a gleaming, cocked and locked nickel-plated 9 mm Browning Hi-Power pistol. “Let them find this one. Keep it in the small of your back, like this.” He tucked the big 9 mm into Short’s waistband and pulled the sweatshirt over it. He then produced a switchblade knife. “Let them find this in your pocket, as well. Then they’ll be happy, thinking you’re totally defenseless.” Tell checked his watch. “Mr. Short, I believe it is time for you to make your telephone call.”

Bolan stood in the briefing room and strapped on his weapons. His blacksuit stretched over his powerful frame as he cinched down the straps of his threat level III body armor. The Beretta 93-R sat in its shoulder holster, and the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle rode on his hip. His Tanto fighting knife was placed on the suspender of his web gear, while the top loop of his skeleton-handled stiletto just showed itself in his left combat boot. A Smith & Wesson 9 mm snub-nosed Centennial revolver sat holstered over his right ankle. Several grenades were clipped to his pistol belt, and he slung a bandolier of 40 mm projectiles for the M-203 grenade launcher over his shoulder.

He powered up the infrared night-vision sight he had attached to his M-4 carbine and swept it over the back wall. It was functioning perfectly. Powering down the sight, he lowered the weapon as he examined the DEA agents.

Elizabeth Charles wore loose pants and a windbreaker over her armored vest. Her hair was pulled up and held in place under a black baseball cap she wore back to front, with a Chicago Bulls logo sewn above the bill. Her .45-caliber Glock automatic was holstered on her hip, and she ran a critical eye over her 9 mm Colt submachine gun. Special Agent in Charge Antonio held a .223 Ruger Mini14 rifle with the stock folded in her lap, and something bulged under her jacket from a shoulder holster position. Agents Dagget and Stokes were both armed and armored, carrying a Mini-14 rifle and a short barreled shotgun, respectively.

Agent Dagget looked up from his rifle. “What’s Short going to think when he sees our little army coming to get him?”

Antonio stood and slung her rifle. “I don’t give a damn what he thinks. He’s coming in.” She glanced at Bolan and Charles. “He’s wanted in New York for resisting arrest and assaulting federal officers. He can come in willingly as a protected witness, or we can take him downtown in handcuffs. It’s his choice, but either way, Byron Short is coming in with us.”

A young agent ran into the briefing room. “Agent Antonio, Mr. Belasko, Byron Short’s on the line.” The Executioner turned to Antonio. “Let’s go.”

14

“The Antonio woman says they’re coming,” Short said as he hung up the receiver.

Tell nodded. Around them, twenty-five heavily armed Jamaican street soldiers lounged on crates and sofas scattered about the warehouse. Each man was armed with a folding stock AK-47 rifle. Most of them had at least one handgun, as well, while several carried sheathed machetes. The rifles were of former East German manufacture and were as sterile as could be had in the modern world. Tell had checked them personally. They had seen hard use, but all of them were in excellent condition. Tell was satisfied as he looked around the warehouse. He had a platoon of heavily armed and practically fearless troops, and two hidden aces up his sleeve.

Tell’s cellular phone rang, and he withdrew it from his pocket and flipped it open. He listened intently for a few moments, then spoke one word. “Good.”

Jon-Jon Smythe cocked the bolt handle of his AK-47 rifle, held the rifle with the stock folded in one huge fist like a handgun.

Tell slipped his phone into his jacket pocket. “Our observer outside the DEA division office says there are five of them, split between two cars. Agent Antonio and our friend will be in an unmarked sedan with one other agent. Agent Charles and Belasko will be in another. It seems Belasko has acquired another sports car, a dark green convertible IROC-Z. Make sure he and Charles are out of the car before you start to fire. We are all too familiar with his driving skills. I do not want him to get away.”

Smythe smiled. “Belasko is a fast driver, but he’s not faster than this.” He set down his rifle and pulled open a long crate. Reaching in with his good arm, he withdrew a long green metallic tube with an optical sight and a pistol grip attached. It was a Russian RPG-7 rocket-propelled grenade launcher.

“Do you have someone who knows how to fire it?” Tell asked.

Smythe turned to a lanky man whittling on a stick with a pocketknife. “Fletcher.”

The man closed his knife and rose. Slipping the knife into his pocket, he strode forward. “What’s up?”

The Jamaican handed him the launch tube. “Inform Mr. Tell of your qualifications.”

Fletcher shrugged. “I was in the First Battalion of the Jamaica Defense Force. I went to Grenada with the Americans to fight the Cubans. The Cubans left behind more weapons than you’ve ever seen in your life. The Americans gave a lot of them to the Grenadans for their militia. I was with the Caribbean liaison unit that helped train the Grenadan militia. So no problem, Mr. Tell, I know which end is which.”

Smythe grinned. “The white boy blew up my brothers with his grenades on the freeway. I figure this time we give him some of his own medicine.”

Tell was impressed. Smythe continued to surprise him as a tactician. “Excellent.” He checked his watch. “Your men need to be in position soon. Make sure they stay out of sight until the signal is given. I want our targets on foot and in the open before they start to fire.”

The Jamaican nodded and gave a piercing whistle with his fingers. His men swiftly began to file out of the warehouse. Fletcher loaded a grenade into the RPG-7 and took two spares from the crate, handing them to his loader. The two men left the warehouse. Tell turned to Short. “Are you ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Smythe turned to Tell. “We kill the white boy and the New Yorker, Charles, but we leave your DEA Judas alone?”

“That is correct.”

“What about the other agent and the DEA boss lady?”

Tell shrugged. “Kill them. If it comes to it, kill them all if you have to. Even Short if he is in the way. I have spoken with both the old man and King George, and the story we have spread is only half a lie. Both of them are displeased with Short’s performance in New York. If it is necessary to the mission, Short is expendable.”

Smythe nodded. “I, too, have spoken with King George, and I have been made aware of these things.”

“Good, but listen to me, my friend. The agent and the observer, they must be killed, and at any cost. Even our DEA friend is expendable in this regard, but try not to kill him.” Tell handed Smythe his phone. “All you have to do is hit the third preset button to signal him. If anything goes wrong, he is our ace in the hole. Are we clear?”

The Jamaican looked at Tell for a moment over the rims of his sunglasses. “Yes, man, crystal clear.”

Bolan followed the DEA four-door sedan through the Miami night, the IROC-Z’s huge engine rumbling as they tooled past the swaying palm trees. A full moon eased in and out from behind the clouds. Elizabeth Charles sat with her Colt submachine gun across her knees. The soldier checked his mirrors but saw no sign of a tail. Byron Short was holed up in a warehouse in Liberty City. He had sounded frightened over the phone, and he had demanded Bolan’s personal assurance that he would be there to pick him up and make sure there was no monkey business. The Executioner wondered if it was an act. The man had run twice, and the Jamaican crime posses were noted for their harsh discipline. So even if he was acting, his superiors might not be. It really didn’t matter. He had the feeling Byron Short was in for a hard evening, whichever way it went.

The caravan pulled into a driveway between two warehouse complexes, and the sedan ahead quickly pumped its brake lights three times as they entered the warehouse district. Bolan turned to Charles. “Here we go.”

The woman nodded and pulled her baseball cap back around her head, yanking the brim low over her eyes. She flicked the safety off her 9 mm submachine gun. The sedan pulled up to the curb, and Antonio and her agents got out with their weapons ready, crouching behind the car doors. Bolan glanced about in the dim light at the warehouses surrounding them. He didn’t like the situation. The headlights of the two cars threw harsh cones of light down the drive-through, leaving large sections of shadow. To the right a single warehouse had its door open, and the interior gaped in inky blackness. The setup had ambush written all over it. He put the car in neutral and left the engine running as he parked ten yards behind the DEA sedan. He took his M-4 Ranger in hand and left his door open as he exited the vehicle. With a flick of his thumb, the night-vision sight mounted on the carbine powered into life.

He swept the perimeter through the light-enhancing sight, and the shadows lit up in monochrome greens and grays. He swept the rooftops and the open warehouse door. Nothing moved, nothing was visible. He flicked the M-4 carbine’s selector switch to full-auto.

Agent Antonio shouted into the still night air. “Short! You have ten seconds to show yourself or we’re out of here!”

A voice came from the darkness of the warehouse door to their night. “Hold up, lady! I’m coming!”

Bolan swung his rifle to the open door, and Byron Short appeared in the cross-hairs as he came from behind the door. He limped out of the darkness into the dim light of the alley. He glanced about and saw Bolan and Charles standing by the idling Z and grinned. “My protectors.”

Antonio came out from behind her car door with her rifle slung over her shoulder in the assault position, the muzzle fixed on Short’s chest. “Assume the position, Short.”

The Jamaican approached the DEA sedan and put his hands on the hood. Antonio jerked her head at Agent Stokes. “Frisk him.”

Stokes ran his hands under Short’s armpits and patted him down. He pulled a large gleaming nickel-plated 9 mm pistol from the small of the Jamaican’s back. A moment later he pulled a switchblade from the man’s back pocket. Stokes set the weapons on the hood of the sedan and turned Short around to face Antonio. He shrugged his shoulders sheepishly.

“My life is on the line, boss lady. I have to look out for myself.”

“Short, I’m placing you in federal custody. Are you ready to go?”

Bolan swept the perimeter once more with the M-4’s night-vision sight as Short spread his arms. “We’re Out Of here!”

As Antonio turned to the car, the Jamaican hurled himself to the ground.

Jon-Jon Smythe knelt under the second-story window of the warehouse among the stacks of crates. Fletcher crouched beside him with the RPG-7 across his shoulder, the football-shaped cone of the weapon’s 85 mm warhead protruding from the launch tube. Fletcher’s loader, Carlton, sat behind him, the spare rockets cradled across his knees. All of them stayed low; Tell had warned them about night-vision devices. Smythe hadn’t even peeked out when he’d heard the cars pull up. They would move only on Short’s verbal cue. His signal would tell them when the cops were out of their cars and vulnerable, then the trap would slam shut, and they would catch their targets in a deadly cross fire. Smythe could hear Short speaking below them.

” … have to look out for myself.”

Smythe’s knuckles whitened around the pistol grip of his AK-47 rifle. His wounded arm rested across his chest in its Sling. In that hand he held Tell’s cellular phone, his finger resting on the first preset button as he waited for the signal.

Short’s voice spoke loudly down in the alley. “We’re out of here!”

Smythe’s thumb hit the phone’s first preset button, and on cue he heard the big diesel engine of the vehicle parked on the street outside the warehouse roar into life. “Hit them!” he ordered Fletcher.

Fletcher rose and peered through the RPG-7’s optical sight. Below the window were two cars, both with their engines running. Short had thrown himself prone and clear of the sedan. Fletcher put the cross-hairs on the sedan and pulled the trigger. The ejection cartridge shot the rocket out of the launch tube, and the five-pound, high-explosive warhead accelerated to over 300 meters per second and hissed down into the killing ground below.

“Get down!” Bolan yelled. The agents dived to the ground. The rocket streaked out the window on a streamer of fire and slammed into the hood of the DEA sedan. The warhead detonated in a ball of orange fire, and the entire front end of the vehicle lifted into the air as the frame buckled and burned. Sizzling metal flew overhead in a deadly storm of shrapnel. The Executioner rose even before the shattered vehicle had slammed back down and brought the M-4’s sight to the window. Three men stood framed in his view. One held a launch tube, while another slid a fresh rocket into the muzzle. The third man wielded an AK-47 in one hand.

Bolan squeezed the trigger of the M-203 grenade launcher. The weapon recoiled, and he dropped behind the hood of the Z as he opened the launcher’s smoking breech.

Weapons began to fire all around them from the rooftops. The soldier raised the carbine. The night-vision sight left the gunners with nowhere to hide. He put two quick bursts into the men who had risen up in the shadows across the street and watched them go down. More men stood, all armed with automatic weapons. He jerked his head around at the sound of a heavy engine. A battered school bus had pulled across the opening of the alley they had driven into. Weapons opened up from the vehicle’s windows. He and the DEA agents were in a cross fire.

Bolan roared over the sound of battle. “The open warehouse! Move!”

The agents moved, at the same time firing their weapons at the rooftops as a hail of gunfire opened up around them. Antonio held Byron Short at gunpoint, using him as a shield as she made for the open door.

The Executioner leaped into the driver’s seat of the convertible, shouting at Charles to get in.

The agent sprang into the passenger seat as the huge engine roared, the tires smoking and screaming. The vehicle lunged forward, and Bolan swerved around the retreating agents and passed them. The open door of the warehouse gaped before them as the Executioner turned, bullets stitching into the car’s trunk. The left rear tire blew as he hit the headlights and floored the accelerator. Armed men suddenly froze in the harsh glare of the lights, and Bolan aimed the shark-like nose of the car straight at them. The gunners seemed to recover from their shock and leveled their weapons.

Charles ducked as Bolan slid low behind the wheel, bullets tearing across the top of the car, cracking the windshield with multiple impacts. The car struck the two men, smashing them aside. The soldier spun the wheel savagely, and the tires screamed as the car fishtailed, slamming into a row of crates.

Across the warehouse, a catwalk stood against the opposite wall, three men positioned on top of it. As the men began to fire down at them, the Executioner trod on the gas pedal. The V-8 engine’s roar of power was like thunder in the echoing cavern of the warehouse. The tires squealed, and the rim of the blown rear tire shot sparks as it buzz-sawed against the concrete floor. The vehicle skewed from side to side, then surged forward.

“Put on your seat belt!” Bolan yelled over the noise.

The men on the catwalk fired their AK-47s on full-auto.

The V-8 engine shrieked, and the whole car shuddered as something within the engine seized and gave way under the hail of bullets. Bolan clicked his own seat belt into place and spun the dying vehicle’s steering wheel brutally. The IROC-Z crashed broadside into the catwalk at more than forty miles per hour.

The structure’s metal poles buckled under the impact.

The car’s air bags exploded open and filled the interior.

Bolan twisted his head against the crush of the material and saw men falling to the floor. Metal spars and boards rained to the floor as the besieged catwalk surrendered and toppled over on its side. A board bounced off the deflating air bag, and Bolan shoved it aside as he stood up in the open car. One of the Jamaicans had fallen clear, and he rose to his feet. The Executioner put a 5-round burst into the gunner as he fumbled with his rifle. The man staggered and fell. A second hardman rolled over and groped for the handgun at his hip, and Bolan stitched him with a burst from the M-4. A third man was pinned under the steel framework of the catwalk. Charles’s 9 mm subgun chattered and the man jerked then lay still.

The Executioner raised his carbine at the sound of footsteps, but his night-vision sight revealed Antonio, Dagget, and Byron Short entering the warehouse.

Bolan realized the warehouse had been a trap within a trap: anyone surviving the initial cross fire outside would have been drawn to the apparent cover of the warehouse. If they’d entered on foot, they would’ve been cut to pieces. His head jerked up at the sound of running feet above them. The men on the second floor and the roof would be coming for them.

“Over here!” he yelled.

The trio of agents picked their way through the carnage. Bolan kept his sights on the stairs as he spoke. “Where’s Stokes?”

Antonio’s face was grim. “Dead. I saw him take a head shot. It’s down to the four of us and this piece of garbage.” She drove the muzzle of her rifle into Short’s kidneys. “You do exactly as I say, or you’re dead meat. Get it?” she spat.

Short moaned in the affirmative.

Outside, they could hear men moving and the clatter of feet across the corrugated iron roof. Antonio turned to Bolan. “I know you’re just an observer, but I think maybe you should take command.”

Bolan nodded. “Right. The alley is a killing zone, plus it’s blocked by the bus. The street is also a no go.”

Dagget looked around. “So what’s the plan?”

The Executioner glanced at the far wall and the stairway. “We clear this building. First the second floor, then the roof.” He took a coil of rope from the back of the IROC-Z and looped it over one shoulder. “Then we climb down to the street.”

Bolan took a 40 mm projectile from his bandolier and racked it into the breech of the M-203 grenade launcher. Suddenly bullets began streaking in through the open warehouse door. Antonio fired back in short bursts with her carbine. “Save your ammo,” the soldier said, “you’ll need it.”

The soldier slung his carbine and took two hand grenades from his belt. Arming the first bomb he hurled it into the gaping doorway of the warehouse. The white phosphorous grenade detonated in a blinding white flash, sending streamers of smoke and flaming particles into the air like a hellish fireworks display. Outside, men caught in the phosphorous screamed as they burned. The chemical arced down the inside of the warehouse and the edges of the collapsed catwalk, starting fires among the crates and the walls.

Dagget flinched at Bolan’s side. “Christ, you’re cutting it close!”

The Executioner pulled the pin on the second grenade. “It’s going to get closer. The Z is leaking gasoline.”

The agent’s eyes widened. Bolan jerked his head at the stairs as he raised the grenade. “Get moving. You don’t want to stick around when this one goes off.”

Charles was already on her way. Antonio herded Short in front of her at gunpoint, as Dagget followed.

Bolan tossed the grenade. It arced into the burning white cloud, burst and clattered to the warehouse floor. The canister hissed violently, billowing clouds of CS tear gas joining the glowing smoke of the phosphorous. The open door of the warehouse was obscured, but the Executioner doubted anyone would charge through the deadly mixture of gas, smoke and fire in the next few minutes. He ducked and swung through the sagging spars of the catwalk and headed for the stairs, glancing around as he ran. The fires in the warehouse were burning in earnest, and the cavernous interior glowed red, the rows of wooden crates forming lines of fire. Soon, the whole building would be ablaze. They would have to move fast.

Charles stood at the foot of the staircase, sending short bursts into the second-story door. She ducked as return fire ripped down at her in a shower of wooden splinters. Bolan shouldered his carbine and squeezed the M-203’s trigger. The weapon boomed, and the 40 mm projectile punched through the door and detonated. The door shuddered on its hinges, and Bolan was rewarded by muffled shouts of pain and anger. He racked a fresh grenade into the M-203’s breech.

“Come on, we have to-“

The Executioner’s eyes suddenly flared. “Down!” he roared.

An angry hiss came from the second story, and the battered door blew off its hinges. A blinding jet of white-hot gas and molten metal fanned out from the doorway, searing the wooden staircase into flames as it shrieked overhead. Bolan covered his face with his forearm as the intense heat wave washed over him.

He pulled his last grenade from his belt. It seemed the RPG-7 man wasn’t down after all. They had been lucky: the five-pound charge had sent its armor-piercing stream of superheated gas and entrained molten metal over their heads. If the gunner had been able to shoot from a downward angle, they would have been burned alive.

The Executioner pulled the pin on the grenade. “Cover me!”

Antonio and Charles sent bursts from their weapons up over Bolan’s head as he raced up the burning staircase. The safety handle pinged free, and Bolan lobbed the grenade through the shattered doorway. He covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut as he flung himself to one side of the door.

Eye-searing light exploded into incandescence, and the flash-stun grenade thundered like a cannon shell. Bolan shook his head to clear his ringing ears and sprang around the burning doorjamb with his carbine leveled. The steps vibrated as the DEA agents followed.

Two Jamaicans tottered in place. The RPG-7 launch tube lay at the gunner’s feet where he had dropped it. The second man blindly clutched the reload rocket. Bolan put a burst into each man and put them down. Some of the Jamaicans had been partially covered from the dazzling light and concussive wave of the flash-stun grenade, and they began to fire awkwardly. Bolan went into a roll and came up firing. A Jamaican went down.

Automatic weapons cut loose from the doorway. The DEA agents were in the fight.

The Executioner moved, taking out the stunned Jamaicans as he made his way through the stacks of crates toward the street side of the warehouse. He turned around a line of crates and found himself facing a row of windows. Through the dirty glass he could see the glow of streetlights. He crouched and hissed loudly. “Charles!”

He heard her voice in return close by. “Where are you?”

Bolan figured quickly. “South.”

Seconds later her head peeked quickly around the crates, followed by the DEA agents and Byron Short. Bolan uncoiled his rope and moved to the window. The agents edged into covering positions behind the crates. The Executioner gripped a window-frame and tugged. It was bolted shut.

Bolan grimaced and spoke low under his breath. “I’m about to announce where we are. Be ready.” He lifted a heavy crate, pressed it over his head, then sent it crashing through the window.

Voices began to yell almost instantly. “They’re at the windows!”

The Executioner cleared the jagged shards with the muzzle of his carbine and flung coils of rope out the window. Antonio and Charles began to fire as a half a dozen Jamaicans charged forward, their guns blazing on full-auto. There were more behind them. Bolan leveled the M-203 and triggered a round, sending dozens of steel projectiles from the gaping maw of the grenade launcher. The charging men twisted and fell under the hailstorm. The soldier raised his sights and drilled rapid bursts from his carbine at the survivors. The agents’ weapons joined his in a withering cross fire. In moments the second floor of the warehouse was a charnel house littered with dead and wounded.

Bolan ejected his spent magazine and reached for a fresh one. The DEA agents followed suit.

Byron Short raised his hands behind his head. They came down clutching a tiny automatic pistol. Charles raised her carbine just as Short leveled his weapon. The woman’s head snapped back brutally as the Jamaican shot her in the forehead. Antonio shouted in rage as she slapped home a fresh magazine and racked the bolt of her Mini-14 rifle. Short twisted and brought his pistol to bear on her. Bolan’s Beretta 93-R was already in his hand.

The pistol snarled, and a 3-round burst took Short in the chest. He staggered back, trying drunkenly to level his weapon at Bolan as a second burst hit him. The Executioner’s third burst stitched upward through his neck and face. The pistol fell from the Jamaican’s fingers as he dropped dead to the floor.

The soldier moved to Charles’s side. She let out a moan. The copper base of a tiny .25-caliber bullet shone dimly where it lay lodged in the Chicago Bulls logo on the front of her cap. Bolan pulled off the cap and looked inside the brim. In the flickering firelight he could see a tag that read: Ballistic Kevlar, Threat Level 1.

The ghost of a smile crossed the Executioner’s face. He had heard of soft armored head-gear before. Without a hard armor insert, it would just stop a .38 Special, leaving the wearer with a hell of a headache. Charles opened her eyes and moaned again. “My brain hurts.”

Bolan nodded. “Yeah. You need a new hat, too.” Suddenly he sniffed the air and glanced around. Smoke was starting to fill the second story, and the floor radiated heat. He turned to Antonio. “We’re going to lower her down first. Help me get her to the window.”

The special agent turned to Dagget. “Cover us.” They helped Charles to her feet, then looped a coil of rope under her arms and slung her carbine over her shoulder. Antonio glanced at Short’s body. “Looks like I don’t get my informant today.”

Bolan helped Charles get a leg over the windowsill. “Let’s get out of here.”

Jon-Jon Smythe lay in a corner of the burning warehouse’s second story. Shrapnel had torn into his arms and chest. He could feel the heat through the floor, and he knew the building was on fire. He could still hear the chatter of his men’s AK-47 rifles outside, but within, the men’s guns had fallen silent. He’d had twelve men with him in the warehouse, and he suspected most of them were in much worse condition than he was. His lips twisted with pain and rage. The terminator man had defeated him again.

He felt the phone pressing into the small of his back. He had one more card to play. Rolling over painfully, he pulled the phone from his pocket. It appeared undamaged. He flipped it open and pressed the call button. A small green light told him it was working.

DEA Special Agent Tom Dagget was wearing a vibrating pager. When the pager’s number was called, it would vibrate against the small of his back, telling him he had received a call. Only one person had the number for the pager the agent was wearing, and it was programmed into the third preset button under Smythe’s thumb. That call meant one thing: kill everyone.

Smythe pressed the preset call button and listened for the first ring, then grunted with satisfaction and closed the phone. Setting down the device, he twisted onto his side, and with an immense effort, drew his .357 Magnum revolver from behind his back. He reached down deep into himself for strength, his mind seizing on the image of the man who had slain his companions. Smythe grimaced as he spit out the words of vengeance. “Blood and fire!”

He took a deep breath of the smoky air and slowly began to crawl across the floor.

The Executioner braced his foot against the window-frame as he slowly lowered Agent Charles to the street below. He could hear police and fire sirens wailing in the distance. The gunfire outside the warehouse had stopped, and he was willing to bet that the Jamaicans had broken off the attack and fled. The interior of the warehouse was filling with smoke, and the heat was becoming intense. Suddenly Antonio shouted. “Dagget!

No!”

Bolan whipped his head around. Dagget had dropped his Mini-14 rifle and was holding a small flat automatic pistol. Antonio let her end of the rope go, drew a stainless-steel automatic and put two rounds into her agent’s chest.

Dagget grunted, but his armor held. As Antonio raised her aim, he fired a double tap from his automatic into his superior. The woman’s pistol suddenly seemed too heavy for her to hold, and her knees buckled. Dagget raised his pistol to shoot her in the head.

The soldier released the rope. For a moment he was free to move as several coils slithered off his shoulder. He lunged forward and drove his boot heel into Dagget’s armored chest. The agent sprawled backward, and his pistol shot high and wide of Antonio’s head. Suddenly the rope around the Executioner’s shoulder cinched tight, and as he took Charles’s full weight, he was nearly yanked off his feet. He slammed back against the windowsill, and Charles’s fall jerked to a halt.

Ignoring the crushing rope around his shoulder, Bolan drew his .44 Magnum pistol. He and Dagget raised their weapons and fired at the same time.

Bolan felt a punch to his chest as he was struck. The bullet penetrated the soft outer layer of his armor, then slammed to a stop against the hard ceramic trauma plate beneath. Dagget shuddered as his own armor failed under the .44’s impact. The big weapon roared twice more, and the agent jerked, fell, then lay still.

The Executioner holstered the pistol and twisted his body clockwise, the rope burning him as he unwound the coils. Elizabeth Charles was down.

Bolan moved toward Antonio. Her face was pale in the flickering light, her breathing rapid and shallow. She was going into shock. Although her armor was holding most of the blood, he knew he had to get her out of there.

He grabbed the end of the rope and tied it to a heavy rack filled with crates. She flinched as he pulled her into a sitting position. “I’m going to have to carry you out of here.”

She yelped when Bolan put her in a fireman’s carry and moved to the window. He shifted the awkward weight as he eased his legs over the sill and took the rope, then leaned back and put his feet against the outer wall. He began to rappel downward, hand-over-hand, ignoring the pain as the rope burned into his palms. The howl of sirens was much closer, and Charles’s voice shouted encouragement from very close.

“You’re almost there!”

Suddenly Bolan’s foot hit concrete. He dropped to the ground, then turned to Charles. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “I can walk, anyway.”

“Good. Take an arm.” Bolan lowered Antonio, and he and Charles supported her between them. He jerked his head at the street corner. “I want to put a street between us and the warehouse. They’ve broken off the attack, but they’re probably scattering in all directions. We can’t afford to run into any of them in our condition.”

He looked at Antonio. “Can you make it?”

The agent was deathly pale, and blood flecked her lips as a coughing fit seized her, but she managed to nod weakly.

Bolan squeezed her hand, then the three of them made for the lights of the open street ahead.

Smythe tried to aim his pistol out the window at the shuffling figures on the street below, but the big revolver seemed to weigh a ton. His hand shook and his vision skewed, so that he seemed to be holding three handguns. Nausea gripped him, and he sagged to the floor as his knees gave out. There was one last thing to be done. With an effort he snapped the phone open and pushed the last preset button. The number rang, and he snapped the phone shut. No one would answer, but the signal had been given.

The old man would know that the mission had failed, and Tell would know that he was still alive. Smythe dropped the phone with a clatter and coughed as he breathed in smoke. He knew he wouldn’t be alive much longer unless he got out of the building. Turning his head, he glanced at the rope that stretched from the shelving out the window. He coughed, gagging as he tasted blood. He looked at the rope again. Even if he fell, it would certainly beat being burned alive.

“Blood and fire,” he murmured. “Blood and fire.”

He closed his huge hand around the rope, gritting his teeth against the pain as he pulled himself toward the window.

15

The Executioner sat in the hospital waiting room. His eyebrows were slightly singed, his eyes and throat raw with smoke; but other than rope-burn abrasions on his neck and hands, he was uninjured. Elizabeth Charles sat next to him. X-rays had revealed no fractures, nor was she suffering from concussion. However, her forehead had swollen into a remarkable shade of purplish black.

They both looked up as a doctor in surgical scrubs came into the room. He smiled as he approached them.

Bolan rose. “How is she?”

“Well, she’s stabilized. She took two bullets. Her armor absorbed most of their energy, but they were of an armor-piercing design. One shattered a rib and stopped. The other punctured her left lung and collapsed it. Breathing all that smoke didn’t help matters much, either, but I’m betting she’s going to pull through with flying colors. She’s feisty.” He turned to Charles. “How’s your head?”

“It hurts.”

The doctor shook his head. “I’ve never heard of bulletproof baseball caps, and here in the emergency we think we’ve seen it all. You Feds never stop surprising me.” His tone became serious. “It’s still too early to know for sure, but you’ll probably both be pleased to know that Agent Dagget should pull through.”

Bolan couldn’t hide a look of surprise. The doctor nodded. “Firefighters pulled him out of the warehouse. It’s rather remarkable. He took three .44 Magnum bullets through the chest and was suffering from severe smoke inhalation. If he lives through the night, I suspect he’ll make it.”

“Is he in any condition to talk?” Bolan asked.

“No. I really don’t think so, and I’m not going to let you bother him tonight.”

Bolan nodded. “Can we see Agent Antonio?”

The doctor scowled, then relented. “Five minutes, no more. She’s in Intensive Care—Ward Four.”

Antonio’s motorized sleep unit was elevated to keep blood from filling her lungs and throat. An IV unit dripped into her left arm, and a thin plastic oxygen tube rested beneath her nose. Her eyes were heavy-lidded as she attempted to watch the news on a television mounted on the wall. She was very pale, but she smiled as Bolan and Charles entered her room.

“Well, don’t I get a stuffed animal or something?” she joked weakly.

“Sorry, but I do have something else for you,” Bolan said. “Dagget’s still alive. They brought him in still breathing about an hour ago, and he’ll probably pull through.”

Antonio’s eyes widened, then she let out a sigh. “I’m not too sure how I feel about that.”

The Executioner folded his arms. “Think of it this way. When you’re both better, you get to interrogate him.”

“And prosecute him,” Charles put in.

“What are you going to do now?”

Bolan stared at the news for a moment before answering. “Most of our suspects are dead, and I’m willing to bet the rest have scattered. The shooters are probably lying low, while anyone big is probably fleeing the country. We’ve put holes in their organization, so I want to press hard while they’re off balance.”

“You’re going to Jamaica,” Antonio stated.

Bolan nodded.

“You realize you don’t have any legal jurisdiction there,” Charles said.

The Executioner looked at her steadily. “You’re right, we don’t. Not officially.”

The agent blinked. “We?”

Bolan held her gaze. “Aren’t you coming?”

Charles’s mouth opened and shut. Bolan shrugged. “You know island culture and the local lingo. I may need someone to go into places where I can’t. I need someone with your qualifications, and I need someone I can trust.”

“I’ll have to clear it with my superiors.”

“I can probably have that arranged.”

Charles gave Bolan a look. “Somehow I knew you were going to say that.”

“There’s just one hitch. We have to leave almost immediately, so we’ll have to get you cleared after the fact. We still don’t know who the leak is in New York so once we contact your superiors, the leak will probably know, as well. I want to be in Jamaica before the bad guys know we’re coming. Are you game?”

Charles folded her arms and appeared to think for a moment. “All right, you’ve twisted my arm. How soon are we leaving?”

“I have to make a telephone call. With luck, I’d say within two hours.”

Guy Tell stared at Jon-Jon Smythe as he stood swaying in the motel’s doorway. The big Jamaican looked as though he’d been through a meat grinder. Smoke had blackened his clothing and skin from head to foot, and rivulets of blood seemed to be leaking from every pore. Tell had received the call from Smythe more than an hour ago. That one ring had told him everything—the plan had failed.

Tell stared at the big man. “What happened?”

“Dead!” Smythe’s snarl turned into a fit of coughing, his knuckles tightening on the doorframe as he struggled to keep upright. “At least half my men are dead! So is Byron Short and your DEA Judas.” His smoke-reddened eyes began to roll up. “You better get me a doctor, or I’ll be dead, too.”

He fell unconscious to the floor, and Tell hooked him under his arms, pulling him into the motel room. With an effort he dragged the big Jamaican onto the bed and examined his wounds. His injured arm was bleeding again, fluid leaking out of the cracked cast. Multiple small wounds covered his face, chest and shoulders, and Tell realized Smythe had been hit by shrapnel. He knew the Jamaican could well die without medical attention, but time was of the essence. He needed to be able to report what had happened before the old man read about it in the news. Rummaging through his suitcase, he pulled out his personal emergency first-aid kit and broke open a capsule of ammonia under Smythe’s nose. The Jamaican shuddered, then his eyes opened. Tell reached back into his suitcase for a bottle of liquor and brought it to Smythe’s lips.

“Here, drink.”

Smythe took a slug and spit it out with a snarl. “If you want to kill me, use a gun!”

Tell smiled. Smythe would probably live. “Tell me what happened?”

The man sagged back on the bed. “They came, just like you said. They took Byron. He set them up as planned. We hit them, then all hell broke loose. Fire, explosions, like World War III.” He took a ragged breath. “One DEA man, Byron, your DEA man—all dead. The DEA boss lady was wounded, I saw her limping away. The New York DEA lady, and the big man, they’re still walking and breathing. The three of them escaped the fire down a rope, same as me. Then I made my way here. Don’t ask me how.”

Tell nodded grimly. It was as bad as he’d feared. He uncharacteristically took a sip straight from the bottle to steel himself for the phone call he would have to make. He offered the bottle to Smythe again. The Jamaican scowled at it, but took a drink.

Tell began to punch numbers into the phone. “I have to report immediately.”

The big man grimaced as he took another sip from the bottle. “I know.”

Tell heard the phone ring. “I’ll get you a medic as soon as I have our orders.” He smiled—Smythe had depleted nearly half the bottle. “I thought you didn’t like it.”

Smythe didn’t bother opening his eyes. “Medicine never tastes good.”

Tell’s smile faded as his call was answered.

“I received the signal from Mr. Smythe. Is he still alive?” the old man asked.

“Yes. He is wounded, though. I will summon medical treatment for him,” Tell replied.

“That is good. What is the situation?”

After Tell had filled him in, the old man was silent for a long time. “I would describe this operation as an unmitigated failure, wouldn’t you?” he finally said.

Tell gritted his teeth and said nothing.

“It should really not be so hard to kill one man and a woman,” the man went on.

Tell decided to risk impertinence. “It was you who wanted to call in Jakob. He operated under your guidelines and he failed.”

Tell was startled to hear the old man laugh. “Yes. So you have failed, I have failed, and Smythe has failed. Perhaps you are right, my friend. There is enough blame to go around. But our associates at home will not accept scapegoats. They will want results.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“The situation in New York and Miami has deteriorated. I believe it would be best to withdraw and reconsolidate our position.”

“You wish me to return?”

“Immediately, or as soon as Mr. Smythe has stabilized enough to be moved.”

“What of the DEA agent and the American?”

“They have trailed us from New York to Florida. They have not operated like federal agents at all. They attack for effect and leave themselves open as bait. I believe your assessment that this man is a soldier. He is not running an investigation, he is on a search-and-destroy mission.”

Tell’s face hardened. “Then let me kill him, now, my way.”

“I admire your enthusiasm, but now is not the time nor the place. I think he will come to us. That is when we will take him.”

“We cannot let him get close to our base of operations.”

The old man spoke with grim finality. “On the contrary. I want to get him away from the DEA, the FBI, and whatever other resource bases he has. Let him come to us if he dares. Then we will cut him off and destroy him.”

16

When Aaron Kurtzman answered the phone, his voice sounded positively smug. “What have you got for me, Aaron?” Bolan asked.

“I’ve got Jakob Vogt.”

“The judo connection panned out?”

“Like gang-busters. Turn on your fax machine, and I’ll send you something interesting.”

Bolan flicked on the fax machine attached to the secure phone. The rig had arrived late in the evening by courier, the entire unit fitting into a small aluminum suitcase that linked the Executioner to Stony Man Farm by a secure satellite connection. The computer at Stony Man and a linked microprocessor in Bolan’s portable unit decoded the scrambled signals in seconds. A photograph peeled out of the soldier’s fax unit as Kurtzman transmitted.

The last time Bolan had seen Jakob Vogt, he had been lying in the middle of a hotel room floor, dead and covered with blood. However, the high forehead and massive jaw were unmistakable. Another sheet peeled out of the fax showing a newspaper photo of Vogt in his judo uniform, with dark stains on the sleeves and lapel that could only be blood. He stood over a fallen, bloodied opponent. The headline was from a French sporting magazine that read Vogt’s Brutal Victory Stuns European Judo Community. The accompanying text talked of protests by other competitors and the possible sanctioning of Vogt for unsportsmanlike conduct as well as rumors of possible steroid use.

Bolan nodded. It seem to fit the profile of the man he had met in mortal hand-to-hand combat. “What else have you got?”

“I ran Vogt through the computer and got a short bio from another European martial-arts magazine. He was born in Locamo, Switzerland. His father was Swiss, his mother Italian. He was the captain of the wrestling and judo teams in his middle school. He did his compulsory military training and passed the requirements for the elite Femspah Kompanie, which is the long-range scouting element of the Swiss armed forces. As I told you last time we talked, they’re a real hard-core outfit. In the Femspah, Vogt was a hand-to-hand combat instructor. When he got out of the military, he began to compete in international judo events. He had always been big, but the increase in his muscular size and power over a two-year period brought accusations of steroid use. Judo tournaments haven’t been drug tested until very recently. Many still aren’t. Being a martial art, they like to consider themselves on the honor system.”

“So what happened to our boy?”

“He won the European championship, unpleasantly, like you saw. Then he sort of got snubbed by the international sporting community. Switzerland didn’t want to send a man with his reputation to represent them in the Olympics, and a lot of international tournament organizers wouldn’t allow him to participate in their events.”

“So he stopped competing?”

“Yeah. It seems he started using his skills for pay in the private sector, and here is where it starts to get interesting. He was hired by a very private Swiss banking firm by the name of Swiss World Financial. They were rumored to have some very wealthy and unsavory clients. Our boy was hired as a security consultant.”

“Interesting.”

“Now, for the big one. Guess what company Swiss World Financial just happens to own?”

“I’d say Delevaux Pharmaceuticals.”

“Give the man a cigar.”

“Have you told Hal?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact he’s here, and he wants to talk to you. Hold on.”

Brognola’s voice came over the line. “Striker, I’ve spoken with the President, and I’ve given him your reports and everything Aaron and John have found out.”

“What’s the verdict?”

“We believe something has to be done. We’ve busted their affairs on U.S. soil, but nothing will prevent them from setting up shop again. They’re probably reconsolidating even as we speak. Jamaican Flake is the first potentially successful designer drug to hit America in large quantities, and it’s an ugly one, as well. The President wants it stamped out, and he also wants to set an example for anyone out there in a lab thinking up new ways to make narcotics.”

“It sounds like the Man is irritated.”

“He is. He doesn’t like the way they bought their way into the DEA so easily, but I think the real clincher may have been their repeated attacks against you and Agent Charles, and the ambush involving Agent Antonio. He definitely doesn’t like the idea of foreign drug consortiums attacking federal agents on United States soil.”

“What does he want me to do?”

“Go to Jamaica.”

Bolan nodded. “That’s what I’d planned. I’ll need everything Aaron can

get me on Jamaica. I’ll also need a private plane. This time I don’t want them to see me coming. I want Agent Charles. She knows the territory, and she could prove to be very useful. She already has, stateside.”

“Done. I’ll have you airborne within the hour. I’ll have Aaron briefing you In-flight.”

“Is there anything I need to know from your end?”

Brognola was quiet for a moment. He had said the words a hundred times, but they still tasted bad when he uttered them. “You’ll be on your own, Mack. Jamaica is a relatively friendly foreign power, but they probably won’t be too happy to find out you’re conducting covert operations on their soil. If you’re caught, we’ll do what we can, but officially you don’t exist.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Elizabeth Charles stood on the tarmac as the private Lear jet slowly taxied toward them. To the right a fuel truck and a two-man ground crew waited. She turned to Bolan. “Is that our ride?”

The soldier picked up his heavy duffel bag. “Yeah.”

The jet came to a halt, and the ground crew scrambled toward the craft with fuel hoses. After a moment, a slender, dark-haired man in a tailored gray sport jacket and stacks exited the cabin door. He sauntered toward them, grinning at Bolan as he removed his wire-framed aviator’s sunglasses. “Beautiful morning for flying, Mike.” He turned to Charles and his grin widened. “You must be Agent Charles. I’m jack Grimaldi, your pilot.”

They shook hands, and Grimaldi led them toward the aircraft. Once inside, Charles ran her hands over the plush interior. Grimaldi pointed to some suitcases and trunks in the rear. “The Cowboy packed you some goodies. Barbara packed you some clothes.”

Bolan checked his watch and nodded. “How soon can we be airborne?”

The Stony Man pilot glanced out one of the port windows as the men fueled the plane. “I’d say five minutes.”

“And to reach Jamaica?”

Grimaldi grinned as they entered the cockpit. “Well, you know I’d love to buzz Cuba, but Hal says we’re trying to look like honest business travelers, so we’ll have to go the long way around. At Mach .85 I can get us there in about an hour and fifteen minutes.”

Bolan took the copilot’s seat and pulled on a headset. The jet appeared to be a normal corporate commercial aircraft from the outside and from within, with its plushly appointed interior cabin. It was in the cockpit that the jet showed its claws. Sophisticated communications gear established a clear satellite link to Stony Man Farm. A compact fire control radar allowed the jet to acquire targets, and recessed and concealed hard points in the wings facilitated the mounting of a pair of Sidewinder missiles or Stinger air-to-air missiles. Two missiles were stashed in the hold, and one of the wing-tip fuel tanks was really a .50-caliber machine-gun pod. The hard points could also mount rockets and bomb racks as needed. The jet’s twin Garrett TFE731 turbofan engines well exceeded original design specifications, as well.

Bolan gave Grimaldi a look. “Let’s make it an hour.”

Grimaldi smacked his fist into his palm. He loved it when the big guy talked like that. “Let’s do some distance.”

Jon-Jon Smythe groaned as his gurney was wheeled up the rear cargo ramp and loaded into the belly of the Shorts Skyvan. The small, twin-engined transport’s propellers churned the morning air. Guy Tell looked down at the big Jamaican as they entered the hold. Smythe had wanted to walk, but Tell had motioned the doctor to fill him with tranquilizers. Luckily, the big man was mostly in one piece, and none of the shrapnel had entered any of his vital organs. He would be left with many interesting, unpleasant scars, which would undoubtedly enhance his reputation. What was more dangerous was the combination of smoke-inhalation, concussion, shock, exhaustion and blood loss from which he was suffering. It wasn’t uncommon for someone in his condition to drop dead. What he needed more than anything was rest, and he would get it whether he wanted it or not. Tell turned to the doctor as he locked down the gurney and adjusted Smythe’s oxygen mask. “Keep him sedated.”

Dr. Berg was a thin, nervous young man with a well developed cocaine habit. When he’d been sued for malpractice, he’d turned to the relatively lucrative field of practicing medicine on people whose activities prevented them from being attended at any hospital. He had become extremely adept at treating gunshot wounds.

“He probably shouldn’t travel for at least another forty-eight hours,” Berg said.

Tell glanced at the man. “It cannot be avoided. Just make sure that he lives. You will be held responsible if he does not.”

Berg flinched, but Tell had already turned his back in dismissal.

Tell listened to the cargo door motors grind and watched as the rear ramp closed. The motor noise increased, and the plane began to move. He folded his arms and brooded. He and his operation had just been shoved out of the United States. Even though much of the network remained, it had been compromised. Tell didn’t relish the idea of starting over. The old man believed that the threat against them would continue, but Tell found that hard to believe. What could the Americans do? They weren’t about to send their Rangers or Green Berets in force into Jamaica: it would be a political disaster of epic proportions.

He scowled as he thought about the American observer. He was still alive. Every attempt to kill him had failed. He had slain Jakob with his bare hands, something Tell thought only he himself was capable of. The man had operated almost independently against them and won. The old man thought he would follow them to Jamaica, but that was almost unthinkable. What could one man do to them in their own territory? Tell was a special forces soldier, so he knew what one well trained man could do. The American might raise some havoc, but in the end it would be suicidal.

Still, thoughts of the man nagged at Tell. The American government had shown faith in him, sending him against their New York and Florida operations. Tell felt a shiver of fear run down his spine. He had seen the man in action. Jakob was dead, nearly half their street soldiers in Miami and New York were dead and Smythe lay before him on a gurney. The American had already won the opening round against Tell. Perhaps the old man was right: The American wouldn’t stop until he was victorious, or until he was killed.

17

The peak of Juan De Bolas Mountain appeared through the morning fog as the Mcdonnell Douglas OH-6A helicopter flew up into the Jamaican highlands. The Executioner examined the aerial map on his lap as Jack Grimaldi took the aircraft up the mountain along the tree line. The pilot had been as good as his word, and they had arrived in Montego Bay ten minutes ahead of schedule. It had taken very little for the three of them to get access to a rental helicopter. With so much of their economy dependent on tourism, the Jamaican government was always pleased to help potential foreign investors.

The lush forests of Jamaica flew beneath them, dirt roads cutting through the towering green trees in brown lines that spiraled up the Mountainside. Bolan turned to Grimaldi and shouted into his mike over the rotor noise. “What’s our ETA to Delevaux Pharmaceuticals?”

Grimaldi glanced at Bolan’s map, then at his instruments as he shouted back. “Just about any minute, now.”

Agent Charles shouted from the back seat and pointed off to the right. “There, look!”

A clearing materialized in the mist, and a white building complex jutted out from the greenery of the mountainside. Grimaldi turned to Bolan. “That’s it. What do you want to do?”

The Executioner folded the map and stuck it back into the pocket along his seat. “Buzz it. I want to get a real close look.”

Grimaldi shoved the throttle forward and banked steeply down the Mountainside. Bolan examined the complex critically. It was basically one large structure with two attached outlying buildings. The main building had a large DVP logo painted on its side in bold blue and red. A helicopter pad had been erected on the roof, while beyond the complex was a cleared length of ground that could only be an airstrip. Several trucks and Jeeps were parked by the nearest outbuilding, and there was a covered carport in front of the main entrance. The entire facility was surrounded by tall wire fencing topped with barbed wire. Almost incongruously, the fence was surrounded by a thin line of brightly blossoming flower beds.

The helicopter continued to drop, then leveled off as Grimaldi roared over the compound. Two men stood by the front gate, and they looked up as the chopper shot by. Both men had rifles.

In a moment the helicopter had swept off into the forest. “You want to make another pass?” Grimaldi asked.

Bolan shook his head. “No, but I do want to take a closer look. Drop me the first good place you can find.”

Grimaldi banked the chopper and put the Mountainside between them and the complex. He glanced around and suddenly pointed. “How about right there?”

The Executioner peered at a small clearing in the forest. “Can you set down in that?”

“No, but I have some rope In the back.”

“Let’s do it.”

Charles leaned forward as Grimaldi brought the helicopter into a low hover just above the treetops. “What’s going on?”

“Mike’s going for a little walk.”

Bolan reached back into a nylon bag. Opening the helicopter door, he took the end of a rope from the bag and attached it to the fuselage-mounted cleat by the doorframe. Grabbing the bag by the handles, he heaved it out the door. The bag fell away, the rope deploying out of it to the ground below. “How far do you figure?”

Grimaldi looked back. “Two klicks, two-and-a-half, maybe.”

The soldier took out a pair of gloves and a D-ring from his kit bag. He slung the bag, attached the ring to his belt, then clipped it around the rope. Lastly he pulled on the gloves. “Meet me back here in half an hour,” he told the pilot, then he kicked out of the helicopter door.

The morning cold of the mountains hit Bolan as he slid out into space, the rope hissing through his gloved palms as he slowed his descent, the treetops bending in the rotor wash. When his feet hit soft dirt, he unclipped himself from the rope and looked up. Charles’s face looked down at him from the helicopter door. Bolan made a brief circle motion with his hand and pointed into the distance. She nodded, then ducked back inside the cabin. The nose of the helicopter dipped, and the rope trailed away as Grimaldi took the aircraft off around the mountain.

The Executioner moved to the trees. He squatted and opened his kit bag. Taking out his night-vision goggles, he slid them onto his forehead. Drawing his Beretta 93-R, he took out the sound suppressor and threaded it onto the pistol’s muzzle. With a click he unfolded the skeleton steel butt-stock and pushed it into the slots in the weapon’s grips, then snapped the forward grip plate down from underneath the barrel. The Beretta was loaded with twenty-one 9 mm 147-grain hollowpoint bullets, and with the suppressor and the metal stock attached, he could achieve silent, carbine-like accuracy out to a hundred yards. Together with his laser range-finding binoculars, a radio, two white phosphorous grenades, six spare magazines, and his combat knife, it was his entire kit. Those, and a small black box from Gadgets Schwarz. Bolan was traveling light. He intended to move quickly and silently.

Bolan halted as he saw a road beneath him through the trees. He had noticed it from the air, and he calculated that the Delevaux complex was now less than a thousand yards away. Pushing the selector lever of his pistol to single shot, he took off again at a slower and more careful pace. He checked the compass dial in his wristwatch—the plant should be dead ahead through the trees. A few yards on, he saw the cleared airstrip. Scanning the trees, he saw no sign of cameras or wires but he knew such detection devices would probably be nearer to the complex’s fenced perimeter.

He skirted the airstrip. It was a simple dirt affair, but the little landing field was immaculate. Bolan estimated the length to be between forty-five hundred and five thousand feet, long enough to easily land small planes. A capable pilot could even land a Lockheed C-130 with the right approach. From this base a fully fueled transport could reach almost any port in the Caribbean. Jamaican Flake produced at this facility could take any of a thousand paths to the United States.

The Executioner continued on toward the complex. Through the trees he could see the rise of the white building and its two wings. One he suspected was a dormitory for the plant workers. The rest of the building was likely to be devoted to manufacturing. He crept closer to the fence. Raising his binoculars, he scanned the structure. All windows were tinted, and regularly spaced security cameras mounted on the eaves monitored the grounds. Beside the helicopter pad was a small shack-like structure with a number of antennas on its roof.

Bolan turned his attention back to the perimeter.

Pulling his night-vision goggles over his eyes, he powered them on, then cranked the amplification until everything became defined in shades of gray and green. As he ran his gaze along the perimeter fence, the goggles’ amplification allowed him to detect a pale beam of light that stretched along the perimeter three feet from the fence, at about knee height. Anything breaking that line would set off alarms within the complex.

Bolan took out Gadgets Schwarz’s black box, which was roughly the size of a walkie-talkie with three dials and numerous switches. Drawing out one of two telescoping antennas, he nodded as the needle of the top dial remained motionless. It was as he’d suspected: other than the laser alarm system, the security of the complex was passive. Whatever other kind of security measures there were, they would have to be triggered. Telescoping the second antenna to its length of six foot, he gently touched its forked end to the fence. The volt meter in the box jumped slightly, indicating that a current ran through the perimeter fence. It was a small current, nothing one could feel against bare flesh. However, anyone cutting the fence would break that current’s circuit, and Bolan had no doubt that the electricity could be lethally surged if needed. Delevaux Pharmaceuticals obviously wasn’t taking any chances.

Herman Delevaux felt vaguely bothered. A helicopter had just buzzed his complex. It had happened before: Juan De Bolas Mountain was nearby, and it was popular with the island hopper helicopter tours; but he had paid the local government handsomely to insure that the Delevaux Pharmaceutical complex was restricted airspace. Still, there were occasional lapses. There were also dozens of marijuana fields in the surrounding highlands, and sometimes the government sent patrols looking for them, often without clearing fly-bys with him. Although there was nothing to be seen from the air, it still bothered him. It was symptomatic of the many things that weren’t going as planned at the moment.

He swiveled in his chair as his intercom chimed. “What is it now?”

The voice of Renatus Hallwyll, chief of complex security, spoke. “Mr. Delevaux, one of our motion detectors indicated a brief reading a moment ago along the southern perimeter.”

Delevaux scowled. The local farmers let their animals roam all over the island, the creatures setting off the detectors when they strayed too close to the fence. The one time they had found people, it had been some locals smoking marijuana and watching the planes land on the regular supply runs. Being surprised at gunpoint had discouraged them from repeating the experience. Delevaux’s scowl deepened. He didn’t like sending out armed men after errant goats and pigs.

Delevaux’s thick finger stood poised over the intercom button, his initial irritated response going unspoken. Instincts honed by decades of experience had allowed him to flourish and gain respectability in both the legitimate and illegitimate business worlds. Those instincts spoke to him now. There had been two disturbances in the same morning, and Delevaux didn’t believe in coincidence.

“Tell me the exact nature of the disturbance.”

As chief of security, Hallwyll had grown bored of reporting every blip in the system. He had called it in only because it was standing orders to do so. “Sir, we experienced a momentary reading on the motion detector along the southern end of the fence. Large enough to be an animal. Then it disappeared.”

Delevaux’s eyes narrowed. His battered flowers were proof that animals often came to eat the blooms. “Did anything register on the fence?”

“No, sir.”

“Was there a break in the laser net?”

“No, sir.”

Delevaux clenched his fist. His gut told him that someone had come and taken a look. When the local officials visited, they were well fed, bribed and sent away happy. They didn’t really care what he was doing; they really didn’t want to know. It suited everyone. He drew down his heavy white eyebrows. Someone had taken a look from the air. Now someone was sneaking around on foot.

Scramble an armed team, now. Put them on full alert. Tell them to be quiet and to expect resistance.

“At once, sir.”

“How soon will the helicopter be here?” Delevaux asked.

“It’s picking up Mr. Tell and Mr. Smythe from the airport now.”

“Have them proceed here immediately. I do not suppose the helicopter is armed at the moment?”

“No, sir, but there are always two rifles in storage.”

“Tell them to be armed and ready to coordinate with the ground team.”

“Yes, sir.”

Delevaux stood up from his desk and went to the window. He was a large man, and at the age of seventy he was still imposing. His third-story window looked out over the southern end of the compound, and he ran his gaze over the forest. His enemy was out there. He was sure of it.

Under cover of the trees, the Executioner kept the front sight of his Beretta 93-R pistol trained on the man’s chest. Dressed in a dark coverall, the man squatted by the trail, a SIG 550 assault rifle across his knees. A similarly armed man peered down at the spot the first was examining, while a third man stood farther back, an even larger automatic rifle with a long barrel in his hands. Mounted over the weapon’s receiver was a large telescopic sight, and Bolan crouched lower into the thick bush as the man swept the surroundings with his scope. He had a feeling they were looking for him.

Bolan checked his watch. Grimaldi would be at the extraction site in five minutes. He grimaced; he wasn’t going to make it. He receded farther into the trees and keyed his radio.

“Den mother, this is Scout.”

Jack Grimaldi’s voice spoke in Bolan’s earpiece. “I read you, Scout. Sell any cookies?”

“No, in fact we have angry customers.”

The pilot’s end was silent for a moment. “And?”

“Return to den. I’ll see you on the beach.”

Grimaldi was quiet again. He had first flown as a young pilot in Vietnam, and his aversion to abandoning people on the ground was deeply ingrained. But trusting the big guy’s judgment ran deeper. After a moment he spoke. “I’ll have lunch waiting, Scout. Den mother out.”

Bolan clipped his radio to his belt and moved on at a ground-burning stride. The road would be a couple of miles south, the ocean eleven miles away and most of it downhill. Grimaldi would meet him in Old Harbour. He checked the sun as he moved across the broken terrain. With luck he would make it before sunset.

The Executioner came to an abrupt halt beneath a canopy of trees as he felt vibrations in the air. Suddenly the vibrations became the thunder of a low-flying helicopter. Bolan frowned. The Mcdonnell Douglas Grimaldi was flying was a single-engine job. The thumping roar overhead signaled the twin-engine variety. He peered through the treetops as the rotor noise drew closer and caught sight of the aircraft.

The airframe was sleek with a long nose and a covered tail rotor, the landing wheels recessed. Bolan recognized the helicopter as a French Aerospatiale Dauphin. He also recognized the Delevaux Pharmaceuticals’ logo on its side and the Swiss crest on the engine housing. The helicopter hovered a hundred and fifty yards from the Executioner’s position. Its side door was open, and a man with binoculars scanned the forest below. Behind him stood a man with a rifle. Then the chopper nosed forward, heading toward the road. They were cutting him off.

The Executioner moved from tree to tree, taking a slanting course west. The helicopter stopped, hovering over the road downslope, and Bolan froze. The craft dropped to the level of the trees and three ropes were deployed from the cabin. Armed men rapelled quickly down to the road. The soldier gritted his teeth. He would have to pick one of the teams and kill the men quickly to avoid being pinned in a cross fire. He glanced around and found his killing zone. Between the crotch of two trees was a riotously blooming oleander bush. He sank into the growth, the forest path forming a natural gallery along his line of fire.

Bolan’s hand moved to one of the white phosphorous grenades hooked to his belt as the team from the helicopter slowly moved upslope toward his position. He grimaced when he saw one of them stop then kneel. The soil was so soft it was almost impossible not to leave footprints. The team turned in his direction. The Executioner slid his finger through the grenade’s pin ring as the hunters moved into his killing range.

Suddenly a lanky, bare-chested man rose out of a bush. Instantly the hunting team leveled their rifles. The man faced them, a machete gripped in his hand. His white pants were held up by a rope belt, his dreadlocks stuffed into a knit Rasta cap he wore.

“What are you doing? Running about with your guns and your helicopters in the air! You going to shoot more of my goats?” he shouted at them.

The leading gunner’s features twisted into a snarl as he said in thick English, “You are trespassing!”

The Jamaican folded his arms imperiously. “I am more than two kilometers from your precious fence.”

“You were a lot closer twenty minutes ago! Do not deny it!”

The Jamaican shrugged. “Perhaps I was, perhaps I wasn ‘t. You don’t own the whole mountain.”

The Swiss nearly turned purple. “You will stay away from our facility!

It is the law!”

“I have been living on this mountain my whole life. My goats don’t know your law.”

The rifleman’s eyes narrowed. “Next time, we will hunt your damned goats and shoot all of them!” He took a radio from his belt as he sneered at the Jamaican. “You have been warned!” He spoke into his radio, listened for a moment, then jerked his head at his men.

The team moved down toward the road. When they were out of sight, the Jamaican spoke quietly. “You can come out now.”

Bolan moved out from the bush. The Jamaican’s eyes widened as he took in the Executioner and his armament, and the pistol trained on his chest. The two men regarded each other for a moment, then Bolan lowered the Beretta slightly.

“Thanks.”

The Jamaican eyed the grenades on Bolan’s belt. “Maybe you didn’t need my help after all.”

Bolan shrugged. “It’s always nice to see a friendly face.”

The Jamaican nodded. “That is true.” He jerked his head toward the Delevaux Pharmaceutical complex. “Not too many friendly faces on this side of the mountain.” He peered at Bolan critically. “You DEA?”

“Not exactly.” The Jamaican smiled, then said with a wink, “I am an agriculturist.”

Bolan nodded.

“How was your sight-seeing?”

“Interesting. You seem to know some of the local employees.”

“They have shot some of my animals, thinking they were spies in the bushes. Such mighty hunters. They have been shooting up too much of their own poison, I think.”

“Do you know what they’re doing?” Bolan asked.

The Jamaican rolled his eyes. “Of course I know what they’re doing!

They wouldn’t have fences and gunmen if they were just making aspirins.”

“Is anything being done about it?”

“Like what? They have a lot of money. They have influence. They have guns. I stuck my neck out for you, so now the question is, what are you going to do about it?”

The Executioner locked eyes with the man. “I’m going to burn them to the ground.”

The Jamaican grinned delightedly and stuck out his hand. “My name is Nicholas Samuels. Welcome!”

18

Jack Grimaldi walked across the beach, a beer in his hand, and watched the sun set over the Harbor. The beach bar was little more than a thatched shack, but the beer was cold and the view of the ocean and the Little and Great Goat islands was spectacular. His face tightened as he looked at his watch for the hundredth time. Elizabeth Charles glanced at Grimaldi, then went back to listlessly stirring her hibiscus punch with a straw.

As the Stony Man pilot settled himself onto the sand, a voice came from the underbrush behind him.

“Did you think I wouldn’t make it?”

Grimaldi grinned. “What have you been up to?”

Bolan emerged from the bushes and sat. “Winning friends and influencing people. Apparently the Rastafarians on Juan De Bolas Mountain aren’t fond of Delevaux Pharmaceuticals.”

Charles snorted. “I’m not surprised. That operation probably offends their sensibilities.”

Grimaldi looked up from his beer. “How’s that? I thought the Rastafarians were big in the marijuana trade?”

The agent shook her head. “Well, they are and they aren’t. They cultivate it and use it for religious reasons, at least ostensibly. They do sell it, but not on the grand scale of the Californian or the South American marijuana trade. For the most part, their commerce in marijuana is on a casual and personal level. The idea of Europeans landing in the middle of their cultivations, pushing them around and producing synthetic drugs probably has them very irked.”

“So why are they putting up with it?”

There probably isn’t a whole lot they can do. The Jamaican government isn’t all that happy about the whole Rastafarian movement. Jamaica has very strict laws about possessing firearms, and I doubt the Rastas are going to assault the complex with machetes. I suspect Delevaux Pharmaceuticals has the local government officials paid off.”

“While I was playing hide-and-seek with the Swiss, I met a man named Nicholas Samuels,” Bolan said. “He stuck his neck out to help me on the mountain. He told me to come by tomorrow and have a chat. I think I’m going to take him up on it.”

Grimaldi frowned. “is that wise? You barely know the guy-“

“I have a feeling he may prove to be a very interesting individual.”

“You’re going alone?” Charles asked.

“No offense, but Samuels doesn’t seem to be keen on meeting DEA agents.”

“What do you want Elizabeth and me to do?”

“Head into Kingston. Get the jet there, then see what you can find on King George. The Swiss are producing the drug, and it’s King George’s network that distributes it. There has to be a route they take into Kingston from the mountain. Find out where the Delevaux Pharmaceutical trucks come in and where they go. Contact base to have Barbara book us a hotel room in Kingston, and tell her we need satellite photos of the Delevaux complex.”

“What do we do tonight?” Charles asked.

Bolan glanced around the beach. “I’m going to take my gear and sleep under the stars tonight. I don’t want anyone seeing me with you two at the moment. You can watch the sunset, then go get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”

Herman Delevaux’s secretary buzzed him on the Intercom. “Mr. Tell is here.”

“Send him in.”

Guy Tell walked into the office and folded his long frame into a chair. “What is going on? When I came in, there were two armed teams dressing down.”

“We had a visitor while you and Mr. Smythe were in Montego Bay.” Tell looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“Someone came and had a look at us today. First in a helicopter, then on the ground.”

“What kind of helicopter? Was it a government craft?”

Delevaux steepled his thick fingers. “No, it was a rental.”

Tell shrugged. “It might have been sightseers, curious tourists. Our complex sticks out when seen from the air.”

“It might have been, but I do not think so.”

“What kind of ground contact did we have?”

“A motion detector reading, by the south perimeter of the fence.”

“What did the teams find, goats?”

Delevaux scowled. “No, they found Nicholas Samuels.”

Tell’s nose wrinkled with distaste. “Samuels is nothing more than a dope-smoking annoyance, a triviality. Let him wander around if he wants. He can do nothing.”

The old man stared at Tell. “Samuels does not know about the laser alarm system. Whoever approached the fence did not set it off. It is my belief that Samuels was not the only unauthorized individual wandering around on restricted land. I have had my people on watch from the moment I ordered the withdrawal from Florida. I have circulated descriptions of our opponents. The tourist helicopter that buzzed our complex this morning landed on the beach near Old Harbour. A woman matching the description of Special Agent Charles was seen disembarking with a man, and they have spent most of the day there.”

Tell sat up straight. “The man, was he the Justice Department observer?”

Delevaux shook his head. “No, this was a slender man, the helicopter’s pilot. Our opponents have beaten you back to base.”

“That is impossible. The American federal agencies do not work that fast.”

The old man snorted. “Nevertheless, they have.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Kill them. But we must be careful. Around the complex we can do almost anything we want. Outside we must be more cautious, and make it look good. Jamaica is a small place, and we do not own the whole government.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Our friends surprised us by moving so fast. We shall surprise them the same way, and we will make it look like it was a local crime. King George has a few men out by the racecourse. It is only a few miles from Old Harbour. His men will pay a visit on Agent Charles and her pilot friend tonight.”

Figures moved through the shadows. They had come up along the fringes of the beach and stayed within the concealing darkness of the palm trees at the edge of the sand. They moved to the road from the beach and paralleled it the short distance to town. There was no moon, but the stars were bright enough to show that each man carried something.

They crept toward the inn that the foreigners had checked into for the night. They stopped for a brief moment and held a whispered conference. After several seconds machetes rasped from their sheaths, and there was a quiet series of clicks as hammers were cocked back on the actions of double-barreled shotguns, and revolvers. The Executioner counted a total of seven men.

Three men moved to the front of the inn, two to the rear. The last pair made for the side door of the inn’s kitchen.

Bolan pushed the selector switch of the silenced Beretta 93-R to single-shot mode, then he headed after them.

Jack Grimaldi snapped awake as his earpiece peeped next to his head. One hand pulled the throat-mike toward his mouth, while his right hand snaked under his pillow for his silenced Ingram MAC-10 submachine gun. His voice was barely a whisper.

“Yes, Sarge.”

“You have company.”

“How many?”

“I counted seven. Three In front, two in the rear, two coming from the side. The front three just entered the inn. I saw machetes and shotguns. They want it close and messy.”

Grimaldi racked the MAC-10’s bolt and chambered a big .45-caliber hollowpoint bullet. “We aim to please.”

“I’m coming in the front. Out.”

The pilot moved silently to Charles’s twin bed. He tapped her foot with his hand, then whispered in her ear as she stirred. “Mike says we’re about to have company.”

Charles’s hand went to her .45-caliber Glock automatic without hesitation.

The Executioner slid along the front wall of the inn toward the door. It was opened a crack, and through the dim shadow from the inside light he could see the silhouette of somebody keeping watch. It was apparent that the lookout could see only the road from where he stood, not someone creeping along the front of the inn.

Bolan planted his boot into the door with all of his 200-odd pounds, smashing it into the man behind it. He came through the door even as the lookout was hurled to the concrete floor by the impact, the silenced muzzle of his Beretta up and leading. Two armed men stood at a small bar. One of them covered the bartender with a large revolver in one hand, a machete gripped in the other. The second man stood by a hall door that led into the inn’s rooms, wielding a shotgun whose twin barrels had been sawed down to the fore end.

The Executioner’s voice was icy in the split second of stunned silence that followed. “Freeze.”

Bolan recognized the large dimensions of a Webley .455-caliber revolver as the man at the bar swung it around with a yell. “Blood and fire-“

The Executioner double tapped the trigger of the Beretta, and two 9 mm hollowpoints struck the man in the chest. Bolan swung the muzzle on the shotgun next as he raised the weapon with both hands, hammering his target with a pair of rounds that took the Jamaican in the neck and shoulder. The man on the floor jerked up to his knees, his machete sparking off the floor as he whipped it around.

The soldier’s boot caught the man squarely in the jaw, sending him sprawling with a crunch of breaking bones. The man at the bar was still standing. His revolver had fallen from his hand, but he clutched the machete, and he plunged forward with a feral scream of rage. The Beretta spit two more rounds into the man without stopping him. Bolan slid the pistol’s selector switch to 3-round-burst mode as the Jamaican closed in, the machete poised over his head for a killing blow. The soldier dropped the Beretta’s muzzle low and held down the trigger.

The pistol made a violent ratcheting noise as the silenced weapon’s action slammed back and forth at 1100 rounds per minute. Bolan burned the magazine in a series of 3-round bursts, the 9 mm rounds stitching a trail of devastation from the man’s crotch to his collar. The Jamaican shuddered and fell in a red ruin at Bolan’s feet.

Yelling broke out from the interior of the inn. There was a crash of breaking wood and glass, and then the thin walls of the inn shook with the twin booms of a double barrel shotgun.

A lawn chair hurtled through the window of Grimaldi and Charles’s room in a storm of flying glass and wooden shards. Grimaldi swung the MAC-10’s muzzle from covering the door. Only starlight illuminated the rear courtyard of the inn, but it was enough to outline the shape of an armed man in the window. The Stony Man pilot squeezed his subgun’s trigger, spitting out a 5-round burst of fire.

The room lit up with orange fire as both barrels of the hardman’s shotgun went off with a deafening roar. Plaster showered down as buckshot ripped into the ceiling. In the momentary strobe of the muzzle blast, Grimaldi saw the man topple backward from the window.

Agent Charles snapped up her pistol and began to fire rapidly at the window. Grimaldi saw an arm snake over the windowsill, and the gunner began to squeeze off rounds from a revolver into the room in all directions. Grimaldi lowered his aim, The walls of the inn were little more than clapboard and wouldn’t stop the .45-caliber hollowpoint bullets. The pilot tracked a series of short bursts through the wall below the window and was rewarded by a yell of pain. He put another burst through the same spot before leaping to the side of the window frame.

Charles held her fire as Grimaldi moved. He crouched motionless for a moment and listened. At the side of the inn a door smashed off its hinges. “Cover the door!” he whispered.

Grimaldi popped up and thrust the muzzle of the Ingram out the window into the rear courtyard. Nothing moved. He glanced down and made out the bodies of two men. Hooking a leg over the sill, he vaulted out the window, the MAC-10 trained on the prone figures. He knelt by the two men and checked their vitals. Both men were dead.

“Jack!” Charles shouted.

The door to their room crashed open, and two armed men filled it in silhouette as Grimaldi charged to the window. The agent’s gun fired from between the beds, and one of the men staggered backward. Grimaldi raised his subgun, but his target suddenly jerked and banged into his wounded comrade as if he had been punched from the side. The man jerked twice more, then lay still. His companion staggered drunkenly, and his shotgun roared off into the right-hand side of the room. Charles continued to fire into him with her Glock, and Grimaldi’s MAC-10 vibrated in his hand as he fired on full-auto. The gunner toppled to the floor as he was cut to pieces. Grimaldi waited, his muzzle trained on the door. A voice came quietly from within the hallway. “It’s me, Jack.” Grimaldi lowered the MAC-10. “You’re clear, Mike.”

Bolan stepped over the bodies as he entered the room, the muzzle of his pistol up and leading. “Are you all right?”

Charles swallowed audibly and spoke as she lowered her pistol. “I’m okay. Is anyone else hit?”

Grimaldi slid back through the window. “Only people who deserve it.”

The agent slapped a new magazine into her Glock and glanced around. “How are we going to explain this?”

Bolan shook his head. “We’re not. We’ve got to clear out, now. Like you said, Jamaica has very strict laws about firearms, and they’ll be very interested to know what a bunch of armed Americans is doing getting into a gunfight on their soil. You and Jack take the helicopter and fly back to Montego Bay, then take the jet to Kingston. Jack will take an alternate route, so you two will come in as new arrivals in the morning.” Charles grabbed her bag. “And you?”

The Executioner slid a fresh magazine into the Beretta and holstered it. “I’m going to meet my friend, Mr. Samuels.”

19

Herman Delevaux studied the man sitting before him. George Percival Heron stared back from behind mirrored sunglasses framed by a lion’s mane of beaded dreadlocks. The man was almost an exact clone of his cousin, Jon-Jon Smythe, except that King George’s once powerful body was sheathed in fat and strained the seams of his expensively tailored white suit. He grimaced as he shifted his bulk in the chair, exposing a mouthful of gold-capped teeth. Smythe sat in the chair beside him, his arm in a new cast and his face a mask of stitches and pink scarring from forehead to chin. Neither man looked happy. Guy Tell and the chief of security Renatus Hallwyll, sat off to the side on the couch.

King George tilted his head back and watched the ceiling fan for several long moments. He let out a long sigh before speaking. “Six of my men are dead, another one is in jail with a broken jaw. You said we would be killing a DEA agent and her pilot in their beds. But they were ready, and they had help. Jon-Jon tells me of the terminator man, how you cannot kill him, not with all your resources. Now the man is here.” He leaned forward, his mirrored gaze fixed on Delevaux. “What are you going to do?”

Tell spoke. “Our contacts say that the rental helicopter that buzzed our airspace returned to Montego Bay. According to the airport authorities, the individuals who rented the helicopter got into a small jet and took off. Airport records show that their flight plan was booked for Florida.”

Smythe snarled, and his good hand clenched into a fist. “The man is still here, I feel it in my bones. I can feel him watching us now! He will keep coming until we kill him, until we drive a stake through his heart and bury him dead in the ground!”

Delevaux tapped a finger on the desktop. “I agree with Mr. Smythe. I believe our friend is still lurking about.”

King George leaned forward again. “You have a plan?”

Delevaux ignored his question, but went on thoughtfully. “Our friend has no jurisdiction here, and I strongly doubt that he is cooperating with the Jamaican government. He cannot stay in the cities for any length of time, as he knows that sooner or later he will be spotted and be open to attack. He also cannot afford to be caught with weapons in the city, or get into a firefight and be arrested.”

Tell glanced up suddenly. “He will go native.”

The old man nodded. “Precisely.”

King George exposed his golden teeth with a scowl. “How will a big gun-toting white boy go native here in Jamaica?”

Delevaux looked at the big man. “When we reacted to the motion detector reading yesterday, our patrols found Nicholas Samuels on our side of the mountain.”

King George waved a massive hand in dismissal. “Samuels is nothing but a no-sense country boy.”

The old man smiled. “A country boy who knows this mountain all too well. He is also a country boy who has local influence. If he feels sufficiently motivated, I have no doubt our Mr. Samuels can get our American friend places to hide and places to operate from.”

“I know Nicholas Samuels. This is truth,” Smythe said.

King George folded his arms across his chest. “What do you propose.”

“I suspect that our friend is in contact with Samuels, so I suggest we get in contact with Samuels ourselves. Perhaps he has a price.”

Smythe snorted. “The Rasta men are our enemies. Samuels will not bargain with us.”

“If the man cannot be bought, then he must be dealt with.” Delevaux motioned at Hallwyll. “Our chief of security here, Mr. Hallwyll, has very little feeling for Sam. I believe he will be able to deal with this Rastafarian, one way or another.”

“It will be my pleasure to have another chat with Mr. Samuels,” the security chief said.

The old man smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Good. Then we are agreed. We know where Mr. Samuels lives. Tonight we will pay him and his family a visit.”

Nicholas Samuels sat in a rocking chair on his porch with a pair of large rottweilers relaxing at his feet. His house was a ramshackle affair that had started out as a hut, then had been added to over the years with whatever building materials were at hand. Chickens and goats wandered about the yard, and smoke billowed out of the chimney.

The Executioner stepped out of the mist like a ghost. The two dogs lifted their muzzles and bared their teeth.

Samuels seemed to have been expecting him. He shushed the dogs with a click of his tongue and smiled. “You crept right up to my house and my useless dogs did not even know.” He reached down and scratched the dogs behind the ears.

“I heard this very morning that some of King George’s rude boys got themselves killed down in Old Harbour. All shot to pieces, they say.”

Bolan shrugged. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

Samuels stared critically at the Executioner’s weapons and gear strapped about his frame. “Probably some local business over their drug. This Jamaican Flake is a nasty business.”

Bolan nodded in agreement. “That’s why it’s time someone put a stop to it.”

“Now, there is an idea whose time has come. But, who would do such a thing?”

“A concerned citizen?”

“You are right, good citizens should not shirk their responsibilities.”

Samuels scratched at his stubbly heard. “You have some kind of proposal, I suspect.”

“Yes. A civic project. The cleaning up of Juan De Bolas Mountain.”

Samuels laughed out loud.

Jack Grimaldi and Elizabeth Charles walked through the airport terminal. Across the enclosed bay lay the capital city, stretching right down to the edge of the water. Charles glanced around as they made their way through the building. “Do you think we pulled it off?”

They had landed at the airport under a new flight number, their passports stating that they were Mr. and Mrs. John Udolf. Their weapons were still concealed on the plane and would have to remain there until they cleared customs.

Grimaldi sauntered across the terminal as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Faking out customs and the Kingston authorities shouldn’t be a problem. I’m more worried about our pharmaceutical pals spotting us. There are only two airports on the Island. Our friends would have to be idiots not to have them staked out.”

“So what’s the plan?”

Grimaldi shrugged. “We get a car, drive it around to the airstrip, make sure the jet gets refueled, and then pick up a few odds and ends from stowage.”

“I think we have company,” Charles said out of the corner of her mouth.

Grimaldi slid his eyes to the left. Two well dressed Jamaican men who had been sitting by the gate of the private plane terminal had gotten up as he and Charles had deplaned, and they were now at the courtesy phones. The pilot turned suddenly and pointed out the window, as if drawing the agent’s attention to something. Both men quickly averted their gaze. Grimaldi frowned. So much for getting into Kingston unobserved. He took Charles’s arm and led her toward the car rental kiosk.

Outside the kiosk stood a man in a blue uniform blazer who smiled at their approach.

“I believe you have a car reserved for Mr. and Mrs. Udolf,” Grimaldi said.

“I do indeed,” the man replied, gesturing toward an ancient blue Volkswagen.

“It’s hideous,” was all Charles said.

The man led Grimaldi into the office. The bell above the glass door rang as they entered, and the old man stepped behind the counter and produced some forms. “Please fill these out, and I will need to see a valid driver’s license.”

Grimaldi took a fountain pen from his coat pocket and bent over the forms. The bell over the door tinkled as someone entered. The pilot looked up at the rental agent and saw that the man’s eyes had widened significantly. The floorboards under Grimaldi’s feet creaked as someone moved directly behind him.

Grimaldi made his move. He swooped forward at the waist and drove his right foot backward in a blur of motion. His heel slammed into flesh, and he whirled in time to see one of the two men from the terminal go hurtling backward.

The kiosk’s door shuddered, and the glass spider-webbed with cracks as the man bounced off the thick pane. Grimaldi took a step forward and brought his knee up to his chest. The side-thrust kick was one of his best moves, and he went parallel to the ground as he twisted his body and delivered it with full force. The kiosk door shattered in a storm of glass as his opponent was lifted off his feet by the force of the blow, to land in a heap on the concrete outside.

Grimaldi still held the fountain pen, and he twisted the metal barrel counterclockwise, releasing the safety. A hard pull on the pocket clasp would fire the .22-caliber hollowpoint bullet hidden behind the abbreviated ink cartridge.

Outside, the second Jamaican from the terminal stood beside the rental car, holding Charles at gunpoint with a snub-nosed revolver. The man’s head snapped around when his partner came hurtling through the door, his revolver rising to target Grimaldi. The Stony Man pilot snarled. The pen-gun was for use at point-blank range. It wasn’t accurate enough for a ten-yard shot, and the gunman and Charles were too close together. Grimaldi dodged to his left, the muzzle of the snub-nosed .38 tracking him.

The gunman’s head suddenly snapped back as Charles lunged sideways, slamming her elbow into his temple. The pistol wavered in the man’s hand. The agent struck him in the side of the head twice more in rapid succession, dropping him to one knee. The gunman rocked drunkenly from the blows, and with a fourth blow the weapon fell from his hand. Charles took a step backward, then turned and spun about in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree arc, her foot scything around in a blur and crashing into the man’s jaw with brutal impact.

Grimaldi aimed his pen at the hardman lying among the broken glass. His face was locked into a rictus of agony as he tried to draw breath. Grimaldi had no doubt the man was hemorrhaging. He glanced over at Charles’s assailant. He wasn’t moving.

Charles took several heaving breaths, then visibly relaxed. “So much for not attracting attention.”

The pilot twisted his pen back to safe. “Yup, time to go.” He slipped the weapon into his coat pocket.

Charles glanced at the rental agent. The old man stood in the shattered doorway and looked around unhappily. He took an involuntary step back as Charles regarded him. “What about him?” she asked Grimaldi.

He walked up to the man and smiled. “May I have the keys?”

The old man reached into his pocket and with a shaking hand, produced the keys. Grimaldi reached into his pocket. The old man flinched. The pilot took out his wallet and peeled off five one thousand dollar bills. “Will this cover the damage?”

The man’s eyes lit up.

“You know, the wife and I would really hate to have our vacation spoiled by investigations, and what not.” Grimaldi scratched his chin as if in thought. “Shall we say another five on return of the vehicle?”

The old man examined the five bills for a moment, then broke into a broad smile. “Welcome to Jamaica, Mr. Udolf.”

20

Bolan and Nicolas Samuels lay prone on a bushy hillock and observed the Delevaux Pharmaceuticals complex. The sun was rising toward noon, but up on the mountain the air was still cool. Bolan handed Samuels his laser range-finding binoculars. The Jamaican took them and peered through them while playing with the automatic lens button, grinning when the complex came into crystal-clear focus.

Bolan glanced down again as a truck pulled out of one of the outbuildings. “What do you know about their operation?”

Samuels tracked the truck with the binoculars. “Oh, it is simple enough. You see that truck? Trucks come in, trucks go out, sometimes several times a day. If you watch the trucks, you know what goes on. If local boys are driving, then what they are shipping Is most likely legal. If the Swiss are with them, or at the wheel, then you know they’re carrying something very valuable.”

“I’m going to get inside and have a look around.”

Samuels lowered the binoculars and stared at Bolan. “That would be a good trick.”

Bolan held Samuels’s gaze. “It would require a diversion.”

“Yes. Are you thinking about stealing one of their trucks?”

The Executioner nodded. “One they consider very valuable. It would take two men, besides myself.”

The Jamaican frowned. The game was about to turn deadly serious. “One of those men would be me, I suppose?”

“And someone you can trust with your life.”

“My cousin, James. He is a good man, and he will do it if I ask him.”

“The men on the truck will be armed. You’ll need guns.”

The Jamaican tapped his finger in the dirt. “Having a firearm without a permit is a very serious offense in Jamaica. But I think there’s something lying around I can get my hands on.” Samuels shook his head. “There is going to be trouble. I will have to send my family away.”

The Executioner stared at Samuels. “I need you one hundred percent on this. One hundred percent, or not at all. Do you understand?”

Samuels took a deep breath. “Let us do this thing.”

Bolan nodded. “This is what I want you to do,” he began.

Jack Grimaldi sat on the bed in his and Charles’s hotel room and patched his secure phone into the satellite link system in his suitcase. It was only a matter of seconds before the satellite bounced the signal from Jamaica to Stony Man Farm in Virginia. Barbara Price answered immediately.

“Hello, Striker.”

Grimaldi grinned. “Nope, just one of his flunkies.”

“What’s the situation, Jack?”

“Just checking in. Striker’s running around in the woods making friends with the locals. He’s due to call in to me in about an hour. How about you?”

“Aaron is here. He has information for Striker.”

“I’ll be happy to pass it along.”

“I’ll patch you through to the War Room.”

The phone clicked, and Aaron Kurtzman came on the line. “How’s Jamaica treating you, Jack?”

Grimaldi shrugged. “The weather’s beautiful, and we keep running into interesting people.”

Kurtzman laughed. “So I hear. Anyway, this is what I’ve got. We’ve been analyzing Jamaican Flake samples here at the Farm, and Hal has been in contact with the DEA Special Testing and Research Laboratory upstate. The arrangement of the Jamaican Flake molecule is very interesting. I don’t think anyone came up with this substance in a lab. The basic components of the drug probably already existed in nature. We suspect the drug came from a plant that was discovered in the Jamaican highlands.”

Grimaldi frowned. “If it’s a native plant, then why are they manufacturing a synthetic replacement? Why not just farm it?”

“That’s a good question. My theory is that the plant has only minuscule amounts of the narcotic compound. Farming it probably isn’t practical, but if you happened to have a local pharmaceutical facility, like Delevaux Pharmaceuticals, and you happened to discover the plant’s properties by accident while testing local flora, as Delevaux Pharmaceuticals does, and your consortium engaged in legitimate as well as illegitimate practices, as the owners, Swiss World Financial, are reputed to do, then it might occur to you to duplicate it. It’s a potential gold mine in the drug trade.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, and this is the really interesting part. Tell Striker that, under examination, Jamaican Flake revealed minute traces of some highly volatile chemicals. The drug might be cheap to produce, but these trace chemical readings point to a sophisticated lab operation. To get the raw compounds into configuration for the drug could require treatment with some very nasty compounds.”

“So what you’re saying is that someone with a decent pharmaceutical lab can manufacture Jamaican Flake by the ton with ease, but anyone trying to do it in a bathtub is probably going to blow themselves sky-high?”

“Tell Striker that he had better be damn careful. If he wants to burn down the place, there’s probably a lot of stuff lying around to do it with. Once the explosions start, a plant the size of the Delevaux facility might just go up like the Fourth of July. He had better have his timing planned down to the second.”

“Will advise. Grimaldi out.”

Mack Bolan crouched fifty feet above the ground on the branch of a cotton tree, his binoculars fixed on the Delevaux Pharmaceutical complex as a white painted truck pulled out of the front gate. Two men, both Europeans, were inside the cab. He lowered the binoculars.

“They’re coming. Two men behind the wheel, both Swiss.”

Nicholas Samuels and his cousin looked up at Bolan from the road. James was a short, stout man with dreadlocks and a short beard that matched his cousin’s. Both men had stuffed burlap sacks into their back pockets to be used as makeshift masks. Samuels held an ancient looking 20-gauge shotgun, while an even older looking Savage .32 automatic pistol was tucked into the back of his waistband. James carried a World War II vintage Lee-Enfield bolt-action rifle and had a short machete thrust through the front of his belt.

Bolan grasped the rope beside him and kicked off from the branch, rappeling to the ground. James grinned as the Executioner landed beside him.

“A neat trick.”

The soldier nodded. “Thanks. I’d say we have about two minutes before they get here. Are we set?”

Samuels spread his arms. “Ready and waiting.” The two men had cut a cotton tree sapling to the falling point. With a good shove the tree would topple across the road. “You just say the word, and the tree will fall.”

Bolan checked his gear a final time. His Beretta 93-R pistol, with its sound suppressor and wire stock attached, was cinched tightly to his chest. The .44 Magnum Desert Eagle was holstered on his hip and tied by a strap to his leg. His fighting knife sat sheathed behind his back, and his skeletonized stiletto rode in his boot. Four grenades were clipped to his pistol belt. A black nylon climbing harness was strapped around his waist and thighs, and several locking straps hung from it.

The Executioner’s head snapped up. He could hear the truck’s engine. The Swiss were coming down the mountain fast. “Get in positions, now!”

James went behind the nearly severed tree, while Samuels followed Bolan. The sound of the truck grew louder. Samuels grabbed the Executioner’s arm. “Good luck, man!”

Bolan moved farther up the road, crouched in the bushes and waited. Suddenly the vehicle came around the corner. It had to slow to take the curve, and the soldier heard the truck’s gears grind. As it passed his position he shouted, “Now!”

The sapling creaked, then, with a snap, it crashed down across the road. The truck’s brakes squealed, and Samuels and James exploded from the bush, bounding up to the cab as the vehicle lurched to a halt. Both men were unrecognizable with the burlap hoods covering their faces. Samuels jumped onto the driver’s-side running board, and shoving the barrels of his shotgun through the open window, yelled, “Get your hands up!”

James had moved into position a few feet in front of the truck, his rifle leveled at the cab. Bolan ran in a crouch to the back of the truck, and grabbing hold of the steel bumper, slid under the chassis. The Jamaicans’ discipline was excellent—neither man had looked to see if he had made it. They had simply given him five seconds to get to the truck. He heard Samuels shout again.

“Now! Slide your weapons, butt first, out your windows. Do it slow, or you are dead men.”

Bolan heard the clatter of weapons hitting the road, and he saw two Uzi submachine guns land in the dust on either side of the truck. Finding a metal bracing, he slid a climbing strap around it and cinched it to his belt. He tightened the strap, then pressed his hands and feet against the bottom of the truck. It would hold him, but it was going to be a bumpy ride. Samuels’s voice rang out. “Now, get out!”

The doors opened and Bolan could see booted feet climb down to the road. Samuels scooped up one of the Uzis, and James picked up the other. The two Jamaicans swung up out of sight into the truck.

One of the Swiss said something to his companion just before the engine started. Bolan spoke enough German to know that the Swiss had called the Jamaicans idiots, saying that they had forgotten to take their two-way radios. He grinned as he lay beneath the truck. Everything was going exactly as planned.

Herman Delevaux slammed his fist on the desktop.

“What?”

Renatus Hallwyll spoke urgently over the intercom. “The driver of our shipment truck just called in. The truck has been hijacked by two armed men.”

The old man’s knuckles whitened. So, the opposition wanted to play cowboy games. How very American. Delevaux smiled unpleasantly. It would do them no good. The truck was full of Jamaican Flake, that was true. But he had paid good money to the local authorities, and they could have the truck picked up at the first town it reached. There was always the possibility that they intended to destroy the cargo. That would be inconvenient, but the financial loss would be small. Jamaican Flake wasn’t very expensive to produce. The facility literally made it by the ton. But Delevaux knew that wasn’t the point. It was the temerity of the act that galled him, the idea that the American thought he could strike wherever he pleased, wage a guerrilla war against them. That was unacceptable. Delevaux considered the situation as he spoke into the intercom. “Alert the authorities at Maypen, Old Harbour and Spanish Town. Tell them one of our trucks has been stolen and to set up roadblocks.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I also want the helicopter, armed, with an armed response team aboard, in the air, now.”

“What are their orders?”

The unpleasant smile returned to Delevaux’s face. “They are to shoot to kill. The truck and cargo are expendable, but I want the hijackers dead and their bodies brought to me.”

Hallwyll sounded positively gleeful. “I will attend to it myself, sir.”

Bolan grimly held on to the bottom of the truck. He had nearly been scraped from his position when the truck had bounced over the sapling in the road, and he had been forced to brace himself as the vehicle had swerved around the winding mountain road. He grimaced as his foot was knocked out of position, only his nylon climbing harness keeping him from being thrown under the wheels.

The Executioner gritted his teeth. He could hear almost nothing over the roar of the truck’s engine and the rushing grinding of wheels, but he knew something was up. Samuels was swerving the truck more than the winding road warranted. The wind was different as well. When he looked to the side, he could see the greenery by the road was being whipped about. He cocked his head, as he caught a thumping drone over the rumble of the truck. They had deployed the helicopter.

The truck lurched, and Bolan braced himself as the truck nearly fishtailed. Suddenly bits of the trailer’s bedding exploded into splinters, and he jerked his head as bullets impacted into the dirt road beneath him.

They had gambled that the Swiss would attack only when Samuels and James had abandoned the truck. The dice had come up snake eyes, and the Swiss wanted them dead. Bullet strikes tracked along the passenger side of the truck, and Bolan heard the shriek of metal as bullets hit the cab. The truck lurched again as it came around a curve, and he tensed as the vehicle went up on two wheels before slamming back down on its chassis. Then the brakes screamed in his ear as the truck shuddered and ground to a halt. The driver’s door flew open with a bang. Bolan saw bare feet hit the road and run for the trees. Automatic weapons belched overhead.

The Executioner put his hand to the Beretta strapped to his chest, flicking the selector switch to 3-round-burst mode.

Ropes spilled down to the side of the road, then jerked as they took weight. A moment later, four pairs of boots hit ground, then took off at a run toward the trees.

A second group hit the road, then the helicopter moved off. The truck leaned slightly as a man climbed up on the running board. A voice spoke in German. “We have one dead in the passenger’s seat.” There was a pause and the truck’s engine revved. “The truck is in serviceable condition. I recommend we drive it back to the facility. How is the cargo?”

The rear of the truck swung open, and there was some rustling before his companion replied. “The cargo has taken some hits. A number of the packages have burst, but I would say the majority is intact. Mr. Delevaux wants to see the bodies. I will ride in the back of the truck. Leave the corpse where it is. We’ll pick up Doll and Nester on the way back.”

Gears ground and the truck started. The Executioner hung beneath the trailer, his face grim. They were still on track, but James was dead. They had known the risks, and the only thing that could be done for Samuels’s cousin now was to avenge him.

21

Herman Delevaux strode onto his well manicured grounds to meet the truck, Guy Tell accompanying him. The side of the vehicle was stitched with bullet holes, and blood ran from the bottom of the passenger door and dripped onto the running board. Oswald moved out from behind the wheel, while Wilhem, Nester, and Dolf exited the back. “What happened?” the old man demanded.

Nester stood with one hand on the sling of his Uzi submachine gun. “A tree fell across the road in front of us. As soon as I had braked, two armed individuals had us at gunpoint. They took our weapons, and then took the truck.”

Delevaux looked over at Dolf. His submachine gun seemed to be missing. “Dolf, I believe you were riding security?”

The man swallowed hard. “They came from nowhere, sir, and were upon us before the tree had even finished falling. However, they failed to relieve us of our radios. I thought it would be wiser to report back and get reaction forces moving, rather than getting us both killed and giving the perpetrators a bigger head start.”

Delevaux glanced at Oswald. He was a tall, thin man and a relative of Tell’s. The old man thought he showed promise in the organization. “Oswald?”

The man nodded. “I believe they have acted correctly. We have recovered the shipment and one of our weapons. We also have this.” Oswald flung open the passenger door and a bloody body toppled out to the ground. Oswald reached down and yanked away the burlap hood covering the corpse’s head, long dreadlocks spilling out.

The old man peered at the corpse. The body had taken a long machine-gun burst that had climbed up the torso to the neck and head. “Do we know who this is?” he asked.

Guy Tell bent over the corpse. “I cannot be sure, but I believe it is a relative of Nicholas Samuels. I have seen the two men in town together.”

The old man grinned. “Good.” He believed in attacking the families of his enemies. “Do you suppose the other hijacker could be Samuels?”

“I would bet a great deal that he was.”

“What is the situation at this point?”

“Two teams led by Renatus are hunting the second hijacker now, and are being assisted by the helicopter. However, at last radio contact they had lost sight of him.” Tell frowned. “If it is Nicholas Samuels, he has the advantage of being born in this area. He grows marijuana all over the mountain and knows the terrain like the back of his hand. Also, the sun is starting to set, so I suspect we will not find him tonight.”

The old man nodded. Tell was probably right. “Call Renatus. Let him know that he has three more hours, then I want him to return. I want this evening’s previously planned activities to go on as scheduled. Take the truck into the warehouse and hose it off, then see how much of our product is salvageable. We will see about patching up the truck in the morning.”

Tell nodded.

Delevaux turned away. They would have to concede Samuels his freedom for the night, but it didn’t really matter. He smiled. Before the night was through, they would give him something to come home to.

Jon-Jon Smythe sat in his bar in Kingston and glowered into the mirror. It was late in the evening, and normally the bar would be jumping with people and music, but he hadn’t bothered to open for business.

Smythe had never considered himself a handsome man, but he knew the scarred countenance he faced in the mirror would frighten small children, and perhaps grown men, as well. He flexed his arm in its cast. It still ached, but he despised the pills the Swiss medic had given him. He poured himself another shot of dark rum.

He knew the Swiss partially blamed him for the disasters that had befallen the operation, and King George wasn’t pleased with him, either. The king had sent him to America to run the Jamaican end of the operation stateside, and he had managed to return half-dead on a stretcher with the business in flames. Now the terminator man was here, running loose on the island. Smythe grimaced. The white boy must be an Obeah, a sorcerer. All their attempts to kill him had failed. Smythe knew he wouldn’t be satisfied until he cut the American’s head off with a machete and held it in his hand. He shivered as his anger failed him for a moment, and he downed his drink. He was a brave man, and he knew it, but the idea of getting close enough to the American to do the deed sent a chill down his spine.

The front door of the bar flung open and Smythe started, reaching for his pistol. He whirled on his stool and extended the nickel-plated .357 Magnum gun. Dinny Moore’s eyes flew wide as he found himself staring down the gleaming muzzle of the gun.

Smythe slammed the pistol on top of the bar counter. “What are you thinking, you stupid boy, crashing in my bar like that? You’ll get your head blown off that way, you fool!”

Moore was Smythe’s second cousin. He had just turned eighteen and was eager to prove himself. “I have news.”

“It better be good news, boy.”

Moore pulled a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and unfolded it. Smythe peered at it. It was a copy of the picture of DEA Agent Elizabeth Charles that he had distributed to his men.

“I seen her!” the youth said.

“Where?”

“In town, this evening. Not more than half an hour ago. She was with a skinny white boy who walks like a cat. That’s the chopper pilot, maybe?”

“Did you see where they went?”

“I was with Kenneth when we saw them on White Church Street. I think maybe the woman was contacting the local DEA office. We followed them and they checked into a hotel.” Moore held up his cellular phone. “Kenneth’s still there watching.”

Smythe rose and the scars on his face arranged themselves into a horrible smile. “Use your phone. Call King George. You tell him Smythe is going to bring him a present.”

Nicholas Samuels ran through the night, branches whipping at him as he plunged headlong through the forest. So far he had eluded the two teams and the blinding searchlight of the helicopter, but it had been a narrow thing, and he had been forced to do nearly a full circuit of the mountain. His breath came in ragged gasps but he pressed on. He had intended to hole up in a spot he knew high on the mountain, but the orange glow of flames coming from farther down the Mountainside had brought him plunging from his nest.

He raced on recklessly, his long legs taking him down the mountain at breakneck speed. In his flight from the truck he had abandoned the Swiss driver’s Uzi. Hurtling through the thick underbrush of the forest, he had abandoned his shotgun, as well, but he still held on to the .32 Savage automatic pistol and the hatchet he had used on the sapling. The Jamaican burst into the clearing, his pistol leading and the hatchet raised, but all that met his gaze in the flickering light was devastation. His house was nearly burned to the ground. The roof had caved in, collapsing the walls, leaving little but blackened roof beams and a cracked brick chimney. His dogs, Solomon and Sheba, lay dead in the dirt, cut to pieces by automatic weapons. Every goat, chicken, and pig had been slaughtered, as well. Then he moved his gaze to the opposite edge of the clearing. His cousin James hung by one ankle from a cotton tree, his corpse turning slowly in the night breeze, the blood from his wounds showing black in the flickering orange light.

Samuels walked to the tree and cut the rope with a swipe of his hatchet. He stood and stared at his cousin’s body on the ground for a long time. Finally he turned away. His cousin was dead. There was little to be done for him. Now he had to think of the living.

He had gotten his family out in time, but he knew that they would never be safe again, not from the Swiss, nor from King George. His family would only be safe when those men were dead. He thrust his pistol back under his belt. He thought of the American; the big man was surely in the lion’s den now, playing hide-and-seek with the Swiss. He glanced up at the stars. He was fairly sure he could retrace his steps to where his shotgun lay. With luck he might even find the Swiss’s machine gun.

He nodded. He would bury his cousin in the morning. Now he would go and see if the American needed some help.

Inside the warehouse it was quiet and inky black. Bolan unclipped himself from the bottom of the truck, his limbs cramped from bracing himself for so long. He lay under the truck bed for long moments. His side ached from where the fallen tree had hit him as Samuels had driven over it, and his cheek stung where it had been ripped by a flailing branch. Slowly he stretched his arms and legs, ignoring the protests of his joints as he pushed outward. At full extension he contracted his muscles, then relaxed. He did this several times, until he could flex his muscles with ease.

He rolled out from under the truck and drew his silenced pistol. When the Swiss had driven the truck to the warehouse, Bolan had heard them discussing the damage to the drug shipment. It had been light, and they had arranged to transfer the cargo to an undamaged vehicle in the morning. They had then hosed the blood out of the cab before turning out the lights and locking the warehouse.

The Executioner pulled his night-vision goggles from around his neck and fitted them to his face. With a flick of the button the warehouse lit up in sharply focused greens and grays. With the muzzle of his silenced Beretta 93-R leading, he edged along the side of the truck and peered around it. The warehouse was partitioned, with the rear of the vehicle facing a loading gate in the interior wall. He crept to the gate and peeked through the narrow window. A smile broke across his face. He’d found what he was looking for.

Large plastic bags full of grainy white powder were stacked by the door on pallets. Along the far wall was a laboratory with a full array of centrifuges, microscopes and an array of tubes and stoppers. In the center were the manufacturing machines themselves, a system of vats and processing tanks.

He examined the inter-leading door. It was fairly heavy steel, with a combination push-button electric lock and a card-reader slot. It was undoubtedly alarmed. The Executioner’s face tightened. The processing room would be the key to bringing down the operation. He had to get inside. The risk had to be taken.

He reached into his belt pack and pulled out a length of thin coiled metal tubing and a small roll of tape. He uncoiled approximately six feet of the tubing and taped it against the seam formed by the double doors. Giving the flexible cutting charge a quick check, he then inserted a small ring and pin electrical detonator. He pulled the ring and jumped back, as with a hissing crack of orange fire, the flexible charge lit up. The doors blew back, twisted and smoldering on their hinges.

Bolan moved swiftly into the refinery.

Renatus Hallwyll sat in the security room sipping at a cup of coffee. He was pleased with the evening’s activities. He also felt rather proud of killing Nicholas Samuels’s cousin. Stitching him with a burst from an unsteadied rifle from a moving helicopter had been quite a feat—even Tell had been impressed. Hallwyll had even enjoyed stringing up the man’s body for Samuels to find, and shooting the Jamaican’s animals. The security man grinned. The next day he would hunt down Samuels and string him up, as well. Then he would have King George hunt down the rest of the man’s family. As he recalled, Samuels had a pretty wife. Perhaps he would keep the man alive long enough to watch the fun.

Hallwyll leaned back in his chair, then nearly choked on his coffee as red lights lit up across the security control board. There was an intruder in the refinery lab.

He stabbed the security intercom with one hand, dropping his coffee cup as he grabbed the telephone with the other. “Full security team to the lab!

We have an intruder!”

22

The Executioner moved through the darkness toward the processing machines. In the eerie green-and-gray landscape of the night-vision goggles he found what he was looking for: a long tank with pipes leading to containment vats. A warning sign read Hazardous Chemicals, with the universal pictograph for flammable and explosive material. The tank was full of acetone.

Bolan checked the pressure gauge. It showed that the tank was more than eighty-five percent full. Off to one side was a pair of large pressure cylinders. They had carried the same warning signs as the acetone tank, except that they contained pressurized ether. The first cylinder’s gauge read sixty-four percent full. The other cylinder was unhooked and read a full one hundred percent charge. He smiled. It seemed it took some dangerous chemical reactions to produce Jamaican Flake. On his first reconnaissance of the complex, he had noticed a small gasoline depot for the trucks and Jeeps the plant ran by the outwing of the building. There was also a fuel truck for the helicopter and for the planes that landed on the airstrip. With a few properly placed charges, he could blow the whole place sky-high.

Suddenly he heard the click of a transformer, followed by an electrical buzzing sound overhead. Light flooded the refinery as the overhead beams were fired up.

They knew where he was.

Bolan pushed the night-vision goggles onto his forehead and raised the Beretta 93-R. Scanning the roof beams, he located the security camera, which was tracking the floor. It swept passed him, then stopped and swept back, its red light blinking furiously.

The camera shattered as a 9 mm round hollowpoint punched through the lens, striking sparks off the ceiling beams. Bolan moved deeper into the refinery room. At the far end of the building a short stairway led to another security door, a similar arrangement of electrical locks. As he put his ear to the door, he could hear the thunder of boots running down the hallway behind it.

Bolan quickly put three rounds into the key panel of the lock, shattering the components. The door buzzed and hummed as someone on the other side tried to manipulate the lock, and shouted curses in German came dully through the barrier. He unreeled more flexible cutting charge as the door began to shudder from heavy blows on the other side. Taping a length of the flexible charge down the middle of the door, he connected the detonator. Snatching a fragmentation grenade from his belt, he armed the bomb, while with his other hand he pulled the ring on the flexible charge’s detonator. He leaped to the bottom of the stairwell as orange lightning streaked down the center of the door, sending severed lengths of steel flying into the hallway.

He rose with the grenade in his hand and tossed it through the smoking doorway. The bomb exploded with a dull boom and men screamed. Metal fragments hissed overhead, striking sparks off the railing and the top of the stairwell. With the Beretta up and leading, Bolan took the stairs and entered the hall.

A team of six men in coveralls lay strewed about the smoke-filled hall. The two front men were unconscious. Three others lay moaning on the ground, stunned by the concussive wave and lacerated by the grenade’s fragments. The sixth man was struggling to his knees, clutching his automatic rifle. Bolan put two rounds into the gunner’s chest, and he fell to ground. Scooping off the dead man’s headset the Executioner moved down the hallway.

A doorway led to a darkened side office, and the soldier slid inside. A window faced outward, and he could see armed men running across the grounds to the front of the warehouse. Slipping on the Swiss headset, he adjusted the Microphone, then clipped the receiver to his belt and took stock. The grounds were lit up nearly as bright as day under the intense glare of the emergency floodlights. Bolan knew the Swiss would be trying to pin him between two teams, and it would be only a matter of seconds before they realized the inside team had been defeated and that he was now within the main building. He keyed the headset and shouted across the radio in German.

“Attention! He is coming your way! Hurry!”

A voice shouted back as Bolan moved out. He had bought a few seconds at most, and now he had to find a way out. He had no doubt they had powered up the electric fence. With the perimeters sealed there were only two ways out: one was through the front gate, the other was to fly. Bolan calculated on the run. To get to the helicopter, he would have to reach the roof. If the enemy was thinking, men already would have been scrambled to the roof to get the helicopter and a team in the air themselves.

He yanked open a door marked Stairs and took them two at a time. The stairwell reverberated with the sound of his flight and the sound of people running throughout the building. His face tightened as he heard a voice come across the headset. “He is inside! I repeat! He is inside the main building!”

The Executioner burst onto the roof. The helicopter sat on the pad. He could hear the shouting from below but the roof was momentarily deserted. He sprinted to the chopper and jerked at the door handle. The door wouldn’t open. Taking a step back, he fired three 9 mm rounds into the window. The glass cracked, but it didn’t shatter. Bolan grimaced. The Dauphin was an extremely modern helicopter, and the aircraft’s high tensile poleax-glass windscreen had been designed to withstand crashing. His hand went to the holster on his hip. The .44 Magnum Desert Eagle could probably punch holes in the windscreen, but wouldn’t shatter it. The pistol’s muzzle blast would also alert everyone to his presence. A cutting charge would open the door, but it could damage the helicopter itself.

A plan began to form in Bolan’s mind. The only other way out was the front gate, but if he took it, he couldn’t afford to have the chopper tracking him. To get out the front gate, he would also need a diversion. Pulling out his last length of cutting charge, he moved around to the other side of the aircraft. He located the fueling port in the side of the fuselage and kicked in the little metal hatch. He inserted a detonator into the charge, then led flexible explosive into the fuel tank.

The door to the roof flung open and boots hit the surface. The helicopter was between Bolan and the hardmen and it hid him for a split second. The Executioner hit the detonator and dived behind a ventilator housing.

There was a muffled roar and the helicopter shuddered. The fuel ignited and then the aircraft was lifted off the ground in a ball of orange fire. Flying debris slammed into the ventilator housing, nearly ripping it off its mooring. The force knocked Bolan back, and he felt the heat of the fireball wash around him. Bits of metal began to rain down around him, and he shimmied toward the rear of the roof. Most of the roof lights had been blown out, but the burning fuel lit the top of the building in flickering red and orange. In the middle of the pad the helicopter was a crumpled mass of twisted and burning metal. Four men lay on the ground near the roof entrance. None of them moved.

Bolan crawled along the edge of the roof. The grounds at the back of the building were still brightly lit, but they were clear. He located the roofs drainpipe and crouched beside it as he clipped the Beretta 93-R to his chest. The pipe was thin aluminum, held by flimsy metal staples down the side of the building. He glanced across the roof at the door. He could hear voices echoing up the stairwell, as his adversaries began to swarm up the stairs.

The pipe creaked as it took Bolan’s weight. The rough metal burned through his hands as he slid in a controlled four-story fall. As he neared the ground, the pipe yanked away from the wall. He met the earth with bone-jarring force, rolled and came up on his hands and knees.

Drawing a ragged breath, he unclipped the Beretta from his chest and slipped in a new 20-round magazine. He moved along the wall toward the side of the building. Evenly spaced windows faced outward from the two-story outbuilding and Bolan suspected it was a dormitory for the Swiss workers. He crouched beneath the level of the windowsills and slipped around toward the front. As he turned the corner, he heard men moving behind the building. Breaking into a running crouch, he spotted a stand of large potted plants. Taking momentary refuge in their shadows, he looked out across the front of the grounds.

A small covered carport stood in front of the main entrance, and parked in the bays was a panel van with the company logo, a pair of Land Rovers and a burgundy convertible Saab with the license plate DELEV 1.

If he could get past the gate they would never catch him. He crouched lower in the bushes as a group of men came out of the front of the building. Three men were in coveralls and carried rifles with telescopic sights. The fourth was a large man bearing a 9 mm Uzi submachine gun. They glanced up at the smoke pouring from the roof. Bolan lowered the Beretta and reached to his belt. He had brought four grenades with him, and he had already used the frag. The high explosive could damage the vehicle he intended to borrow, while the tear gas would be just as detrimental to him without a mask. The white phosphorous wouldn’t work, either. His fingers curled around the flash-stun grenade, and he pulled the pin.

He rose and hurled the grenade at the front of the building. One of the riflemen started as the cylinder hit and bounced at his feet. He gave out a strangled yell—just as the grenade detonated. The night split into a blinding white glare, and the windows in the front of the building shook as if a cannon had gone off. The Swiss staggered and fell to the ground, blinded and deafened by the stunning concussive wave.

Bolan was already sprinting for the Saab, drawing his fighting knife on the run. He hurdled a gunner who was on his hands and knees and reached the driver’s door of the car. The chisel point of the Japanese-style blade punched through the white convertible top, and the soldier yanked the leather away from the driver’s seat. He leaped behind the wheel, and the knife punched through the plastic beneath the dash to expose the wiring. In moments ignition wires were twisted together, and he gave the car gas. The Saab’s engine snarled into life.

The stunned hardmen began to rise, shaking their heads and trying to train their weapons with flash-blinded eyes. Bolan armed the tear-gas grenade and tossed it behind him as he put the car into gear. Gravel shot out from beneath the tires as the vehicle shrieked in reverse. He hit the brake and spun the wheel to whip the Saab about in a bootlegger’s turn. Rifle fire stitched the ground in front of him from across the complex. He squinted as his rearview mirror went blinding white. One of the Land Rovers was moving.

The Executioner shoved the Saab into first and the engine screamed as he floored the accelerator. The car leaped down the road toward the fence and the front gate. He slid down in his seat as he rammed the stick shift into second. A pair of armed men stood on either side of the gate, their large, optically sighted automatic rifles trained on the oncoming sports car. Bolan knew the heavy rifles would cut the car to pieces in a cross fire. He hit the headlights to spoil their aim, and the car’s turbochargers snarled as he slammed the pedal to the floor.

Behind the gate a flare of orange fire suddenly lit up in the trees, and one of the riflemen jerked and fell forward to the ground. The other guard turned his rifle about desperately at the new threat. He tumbled backward as a second blast of orange flame exploded in the trees, and an invisible fist seemed to smash him in the chest. Bolan downshifted as the Saab crashed into the chain-link gate.

The gate ripped off its moorings and flew across the top of the car in a scrape of sparks. Rifle fire barked behind Bolan as the Land Rover came on and held the Saab in the blinding glare of its lights. A dark figure rose out of the trees by the side of the road and raised a weapon. Flame spit out of the muzzle in a continuous snarl. One of the Land Rover’s headlights went out as the weapon’s automatic fire climbed up its hood, then smashed through the windshield. The vehicle lurched on its chassis and veered away from the road. The gunner in the trees dropped his submachine gun and raised a shotgun, firing the weapon into the Land Rover’s cabin again and again. The vehicle slowed as it continued to drift off course. One hardman managed to leap awkwardly from the back seat and tumbled to the ground.

The night lit up in a blue-white arc of light as the Land Rover crashed into the electrified fence, the floodlights of the complex dimming from the sudden drain of electricity. Bolan hit the brakes, and the Saab fishtailed to a halt on the road. His hand went to his Beretta as the gunner sprinted from the trees, a weapon grasped in each hand.

Nicholas Samuels tossed his double-barreled shotgun and Uzi submachine gun into the Saab’s back seat, leaping in after them without breaking stride. He stood and shook his fist at the complex. “That was for James!”

Orange pulses of rifle fire answered from the Delevaux facility, and bullets tore through the trees by the road. Bolan reached back as he floored the accelerator, grabbing Samuels by his belt as the Jamaican almost flew out of the car. Samuels climbed into the front passenger seat and grinned at Bolan.

“Thought maybe you could use some help. When I saw the helicopter all blown up on the roof, I figured I’d stay by the gate and see what developed.”

The Executioner nodded as he cut his lights and whipped the Saab down the mountain road, guided by starlight. “Excellent tactics.”

“So, did you see what you needed to see?”

“Enough to make a plan.”

“Good, we need one. Did you cause lots of trouble?”

“Some.”

Nicholas Samuels’s laughter roared above the rushing wind.

Jon-Jon Smythe glared at the hotel owner, but the old woman didn’t meet his gaze. Her eyes were locked on to the twin gaping muzzles of the 12-gauge sawed-off shotgun that the man held inches from her face. He raised one finger of his injured hand and whispered to her. “Shh.”

Smythe jerked his head at Dinny Moore without taking his eyes off the old woman, and the young man fanned out a stack of American one-hundred dollar bills on the register desk. The old woman’s eyes widened and momentarily left the shotgun facing her. Smythe raised a questioning eyebrow at her as his thumb pulled back the shotgun’s twin hammers. It took less than a second for the woman to make her decision. She swallowed and silently nodded her head. Smythe’s scarred visage broke into a satisfied smile. His lips moved silently to form the words “What number?”

The old woman held up nine fingers.

Smythe jerked his head at Moore again, and the young man leaned out the hotel door and gave a thumbs-up.

Armed men silently began to file into the hotel.

Jack Grimaldi sat on the hotel bed, running a cleaning rod through the barrel of his Ingram submachine gun. Elizabeth Charles had elected to take a long steamy shower. The pilot checked his watch. The big guy was due to send him a signal one way or the other in about fifteen minutes. He and Charles had gone back to the plane and retrieved their armament, and their standing orders were to sit tight while Bolan ran his reconnaissance. Grimaldi had never liked waiting, particularly while members of his team were out playing ninja in the dark with the enemy. He would have much preferred to be orbiting in an armed gunship waiting to give air support. He understood the political ramifications of their present situation perfectly, but if Kurtzman was correct about the chemicals in use at the complex, a single pass of the jet firing its rocket pods would solve all of their problems. Grimaldi sighed longingly at the idea.

Unfortunately the State Department would have a fit. They always had to do these things the hard way.

He eased the barrel into place and slid the subgun’s bolt assembly back onto the grip. He worked the action of the reassembled weapon several times and smiled with satisfaction. Smooth as silk. He had begun to thread the suppressor tube onto the muzzle when the door to their room smashed open.

Grimaldi shot into action. Even with his reflexes, he knew the time it would take to grab a loaded magazine and ready the MAC-10 could be the last seconds of his life, so he simply attacked. The hardman coming through the door barely had time for his eyes to widen before Grimaldi closed in, swinging the empty MAC-10 in a vicious arc. The six pound submachine gun struck the man in the side of the head, and he dropped like a stone. Two more attackers surged into the room past their fallen partner. Grimaldi threw the MAC-10, and the lead man staggered as he desperately brought up his arms to block the hurtling weapon. The other man advanced, and Grimaldi stepped forward, driving the heel of his foot into the pit of his stomach. The man gagged and fell, but managed to wrap his arms around one of Grimaldi’s legs with desperate strength. Grimaldi drove the side of his hand into the back of his adversary’s neck, loosening the grip on his leg just as two more men rushed into the room.

They leaped onto Grimaldi in a combined tackle, and the pilot snarled as he was knocked over. Grimaldi fought back savagely, smashing his elbow into one hardman’s face and raising his knee between the legs of another, but the combined weight of the three opponents was too much. Then a fourth attacker joined the pile. For a second Grimaldi managed to wrench his head and one shoulder free of the tangle, and he looked up into a horribly scarred face that grinned as it loomed over him.

A huge fist seemed to eclipse the overhead light, and Grimaldi’s world exploded as the fist collided with his skull. Dazzling light and pain burst across his vision as a second blow hit him like a sledgehammer, and he nearly blacked out when Smythe’s huge fist hit him a third time. Dimly he heard a door slam open and Elizabeth Charles shout his name. The clicking of many weapons sounded at once, and a deep voice with a Jamaican accent behind Grimaldi ordered the DEA agent to drop the gun or the white boy was dead.

Grimaldi couldn’t focus his eyes, but he heard the clunk of something falling to the floor. He tried to rise, but his limbs wouldn’t obey him.

A voice spoke. “He’s still struggling.”

“Hold up his chin.”

Grimaldi felt nothing. The world simply turned off as the fist smashed into his jaw.

23

Herman Delevaux held a handkerchief over his face as he moved through the wisps of dispersing tear gas in front of the complex. In his right hand he held a 9 mm P-38 automatic pistol. He looked around with tearing eyes. Several of the front windows had been shattered by the explosion, and medics crouched by two men who were bleeding from their noses and ears. Smoke combined to rise into the sky from the roof, while across the grounds, the front gate lay on the ground with two bodies strewed in front of it. To one side, the Land Rover smoldered against the fence and occasionally shot out an arc of sparks.

The old man turned to look at Guy Tell, who stood with his automatic rifle in the crook of his arm, the look on his face reproachful. Delevaux knew what Tell was thinking. He had ordered Tell to stay with him in the penthouse during the attack, fearing that the American was coming to kill him personally. Tell had wanted to go out and take care of the intruder himself, so his expression said that the disaster could have been avoided if he had been allowed to do his job, rather than baby-sit a frightened old man. Delevaux didn’t care about Tell’s opinion on the matter. He hadn’t survived this long by being brave, and acting as his personal bodyguard was one of Tell’s duties. The old man turned away and his eyes suddenly flared. His car was missing.

Delevaux’s fists clenched as he stepped into the breeze, away from the remaining tear gas. He turned to Tell.

“Where is Hallwyll?”

Tell’s reddened eyes narrowed, and he pointed at the fence. “Over there. Can’t you smell him?”

Delevaux peered again at the smoldering, bullet-riddled Land Rover. Over the acrid smell of the tear gas he could make out the stench of charred flesh. The old man scowled.

Tell looked around. “Everyone on the mountain will have seen the fire and heard the explosions. The authorities will come. What do you want to do?”

The Jamaican authorities were the last thing Delevaux needed at the moment. “Get all the wounded into the infirmary. Turn off the fence and remove the damaged Land Rover. Get the gate out of the road. We will tell the authorities that we had a minor chemical explosion but that it has been contained. Prepare a suitable bribe.” He frowned. “How many men have we lost?”

Tell shook his head. “I do not know.”

“Find out!” the old man snarled.

“Yes, sir.” Tell began to speak rapidly into his radio. His eyebrows knit in irritation as his cellular phone cheeped from his vest pocket. He pulled out the phone and snapped it open. Delevaux glared at him. “Who is it?”

“Mr. Smythe.”

“What the hell does he want?”

Tell sighed into the phone. “We have had some difficulties here. What is it?” He stood listening for a moment, then his expression altered.

The old man’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on?”

Tell held out the phone. “He needs to speak to you.” A smile began to break across his face. “Our Mr. Smythe has captured DEA Agent Elizabeth Charles and her pilot, alive.”

The sign above the hotel’s door read Closed, but it opened with a crash under the Executioner’s boot. An old woman behind the counter started as Bolan entered and strode straight to the register desk, Nicholas Samuels right behind him.

“I’m looking for Mr. and Mrs. Udolf,” he said. “They are checked into this hotel.”

The old woman shook her head. “I think you are making a mistake.”

The .44 Magnum Desert Eagle cleared leather, its muzzle staring the old woman in the face. “Someone is making a mistake, all right.”

The woman stepped back until she met the rear wall. “Please, they will kill me if I tell.”

Bolan pushed off the Desert Eagle’s safety. “I can kill you now.”

The woman began to weep. The Executioner’s eyes narrowed, and he lowered the pistol. “I’m not going to kill you, and neither are they.”

She wrung her hands. “They will! They will!”

The soldier’s voice was steely calm. “No, because I’m going to kill them first.” He holstered the .44. “Did they pay you?” The woman nodded. “How much?”

“A thousand dollars.”

Bolan reached into his web gear and pulled out a wad of money. He counted out five thousand dollars and put it on the table. “My friends are in terrible danger. Tell me where they are.”

The woman wiped her eyes and looked around nervously before she replied. “Jon-Jon Smythe, he took them.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. They didn’t tell me. They just told me to close up and shut up.”

Nicholas Samuels spoke. “I bet you they went to King George.”

“Do you know how to get there?”

Samuels gave Bolan a hurt look. “Of course I know. Everybody knows where King George lives. Let’s go.”

Jack Grimaldi cracked open one eye. He was lying on a bare wooden floor with his arms tied. His head ached horribly, and his left eye seemed to be swollen shut. He could feel his pulse throbbing in the bruises on the side of his head and jaw. He closed his eye again.

A voice spoke very softly next to him. “You alive?”

Grimaldi grunted noncommittally. He lay still for a moment and collected his thoughts, then said, “I can’t believe you gave them your gun.”

Elizabeth Charles’s voice hardened slightly. “There were eight of them. They were going to kill you.”

“Now they’re going to kill us both.”

“Well I guess I’m just irrationally fond of you.”

Grimaldi smiled crookedly despite the pain on the side of his face and opened his eye again. “I have that effect on most women.”

Charles snorted. “So what do we do now?”

“You shut up!” a voice snarled at them from across the room. Grimaldi craned his neck and saw a well dressed Jamaican sitting in a rocking chair, a big pump shotgun laid across his knees and a .45 automatic thrust under his belt. The man glared at them. “You don’t move, either. I know all about your fancy feet, pilot man, and the DEA woman’s, too. If either of you move, I’ll cut you both in two. Grimaldi eased onto his side and winced as something hard poked him in the ribs. He stiffened as he suddenly realized what it was, and for a moment he struggled to contain a smile. His fountain pen was in the bottom of his coat pocket. It had to have slid out of position during the brawl in the hotel. He considered his options: it was only a single-shot .22, and his hands were tied. Getting to the weapon, arming and aiming it under the current circumstances would be an interesting trick. However, the Jamaicans hadn’t summarily executed them. That meant they were either to be interrogated or used to bargain with the big guy. Grimaldi suppressed another grin. The big guy didn’t make those sorts of bargains. He would be coming for them.

Mack Bolan took the Saab through the twisting country lanes outside of Kingston, heading toward King George’s plantation house in the foothills. Nicholas Samuels tapped his hand on the side of the car as they sped through the night.

“What’s our plan?”

“Retrieve Mr. and Mrs. Udolf.”

“Ah.”

Bolan glanced at Samuels. “How much ammunition do you have left?”

Samuels dug into his pocket and brought out an assortment of munitions. “Six more for the shotgun, and”—the Jamaican counted rounds in the dark—”eight for my pistol.” He reached into the rear of the car and pulled out his shotgun and the liberated Uzi.

Bolan jerked his head at the subgun. “Did you take any spare magazines for that?”

Samuels stuffed a fresh shell into the shotgun and popped the magazine on his .32 pistol. “No, I had no time,” he replied.

“Give it to me.” Samuels handed Bolan the Uzi. “Now take the wheel.”

The Jamaican drove while Bolan ejected the Uzi’s magazine. He pulled the magazine out of his Beretta 93-R and counted the rounds. There were seven. He began to pop out the 9 mm bullets and transfer them to the Uzi’s magazine. Taking one of his two remaining 20-round spare magazines for the Beretta, he handed it and the Uzi to Samuels. That and four reloads for the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle plus the one in the gun was the last of his ammunition. It would have to be enough.

He nodded at the magazine in Samuels’s hand. “Load those in, as well. You’ll have twenty-seven rounds.” He reached over and slid the submachine gun’s selector switch to semiautomatic. “Keep it there, unfold the stock. Fire it like a rifle.”

Samuels fiddled with the folding stock, and it suddenly cracked out into position. He smiled as he handled the extended weapon. “Looks good.” He finished reloading the Uzi’s clip and slapped it into the magazine well. He worked the bolt, then slung the subgun around his neck. “So, what do you want me to do?”

“Do you know what my friends look like?”

“A thin white boy, and a good-looking lanky black woman.”

“Right. Follow my lead. Stay flexible. Shoot anyone as it becomes necessary.”

Samuels nodded. He turned in his seat to stare at Bolan. “How exactly are we sneaking into King George’s palace, anyway?”

“We’re driving straight in through the front.”

Samuels considered this. “Ah, I see.”

Bolan nodded. “I’m betting that the Swiss will be going there once they’ve been told my friends have been taken. They’ll want to use them against me. But the Swiss don’t have a helicopter anymore, and we have a head start.”

“And we will be driving up in Mr. Delevaux’s car.”

“You’re catching on.”

“But what if Mr. Delevaux has told his confederates his car has been stolen?”

“That’s a possibility, but I’m guessing he’s unlikely to be bragging about that, and they’ll be expecting you and me to be hiding in the hills after the fun and games at the complex, not attacking King George.”

Samuels frowned. “That is one big if.”

Bolan nodded. “Yeah, so keep your shotgun ready.” The Jamaican said nothing, but he cracked open the 12-gauge double’s action to check the loads, then rested the shotgun across his knees. Bolan hit the button for the roof, and the convertible top ground up over the car and fell into place across the top of the windshield. More than four feet of the white leather flapped in the breeze where Bolan had previously cut it with his knife. It looked a bit suspicious.

“Grab the wheel.”

Samuels took the wheel again, and Bolan pulled the leather taut, jamming it into place on the windshield and pinning it with his boot knife. He took back the wheel. The roof would pass inspection for a moment. With luck that would be enough.

Herman Delevaux sat in the passenger seat of his van and watched the trees go by in the headlights as the convoy went down the mountain. One Land Rover rode ahead of the van, and one followed behind it, carrying five armed men. Tell drove the van and another four armed men rode in the back. The old man tapped a thick finger on his armrest in irritation as he thought about what had happened at his complex. Somehow, the American had gotten inside.

The man had killed his chief of security, had blown up his helicopter and had stolen his car. The American would be made to pay for those things, and so would his friends. Delevaux believed he understood the situation: the Americans wouldn’t come and rescue these people. Their government would officially deny their activities if they were captured or killed. They had been sent against him and his organization to operate on their own. That gave them the advantage of doing whatever they felt was necessary, but it also left them vulnerable. They would have to rely on one another. Now he had the woman and the pilot. Before they died, they would serve as bait to draw in the American commando. Delevaux smiled. Then Tell would blow off the American’s legs. Then things would become very interesting indeed.

24

Bolan brought the Saab convertible to a screeching halt outside the gate of King George’s estate. The house was a two-story affair with a pillared doorway and gabled roof. Six expensive cars lined a circular driveway that faced the front of the structure. Two armed men jumped to attention at the gate as the Saab roared out of the dark, its rear tires spitting gravel. Bolan flashed the headlights and tooted the horn. One of the men opened the gate while the other one moved forward.

The Jamaican approached the driver’s side, a smile on his lips. “You sure wasted no time getting here. King George and Jon-Jon have a present for you. You should see the woman. I hope I get my chance at-“

Bolan put two 9 mm rounds into the man’s chest from the silenced Beretta 93-R and the Jamaican fell to his knees. The man at the gate turned to look, but he was blinded by the Saab’s headlights and unable to hear what had happened over the growl of its engine.

“What are you doing, man?” The soldier asked where the bathroom was in German as the second man approached, a pump shotgun crooked in his arm. He shook his head. “I know you speak English, so don’t play pretend with me.”

The man’s eyes widened as he came out of the glare of the headlights and saw his partner on the ground. Bolan shot him through the temple as he started to raise his shotgun.

The Executioner dimmed the Saab’s headlights and looked at the house. No one seemed to have noticed anything. He pulled his knife out of the windshield’s upper crease and unpinned the convertible top. He pushed the roof button, and the leather roof curled back behind the rear seats with a small whine of motors. He looked at Samuels. The Jamaican seemed nervous but determined.

“You ready?”

Samuels nodded.

Bolan pulled the car up the drive. Most of the lights in the house were on, and he could see silhouettes through drawn curtains in several rooms. Reggae music thumped loud enough to be heard from the driveway. It seemed that King George wasn’t expecting any trouble.

The soldier honked the horn twice and leaped out of the car. Samuels followed him with his shotgun leveled as they mounted the stairs to the expansive front porch. The wide double doors opened, and a huge man with a shaved head and a pistol in his hand stepped out onto the porch. “All right!

Lay off your horn, man, I hear you.”

The Executioner put two rounds from the Beretta into the big man’s chest. The hardman staggered and raised his pistol. Bolan double tapped him again, but the Jamaican pointed his pistol and fired. Bolan heard the supersonic crack of the bullet as it passed over his head, and he raised his aim between the man’s eyes.

Nicholas Samuels’s shotgun roared like twin thunderclaps and the porch lit up in an orange flash as he fired both barrels of his shotgun simultaneously into the big man. The Jamaican tumbled backward into the entryway.

The Executioner holstered the silenced 9 mm Beretta and drew his .44 Magnum. Samuels broke open his shotgun and pushed in two fresh shells as he followed Bolan up the stairs. Shouts of alarm and women’s screams came from inside the house.

The Executioner pushed off the Desert Eagle’s safety and entered the house.

The guard shot to his feet at the sound of gunfire outside. He turned toward the door with a startled look, and for a moment the barrel of his pump shotgun left his hostages.

Jack Grimaldi moved. Kicking his heels up over his head, he rolled in a tight backward somersault—endless hours of sparring in the high-kicking martial art of savate and his greyhound physique coming to his aid. As his hips came off the ground, he pulled his knees into his chest and yanked his handcuffed hands down from behind his back. His left shoulder popped loudly in protest, but he continued the roll and shot to his feet, his hands in front of him.

He shoved his manacled hands into his coat pocket.

The guard turned as Grimaldi found the pen gun and armed it. There was no time to pull It out or aim. The Stony Man pilot simply twisted his body and fired the weapon from his hip. His coat pocket blew out with a snap, and the guard jerked as the .22 round hit him in the thigh. The Jamaican’s shotgun fired, blowing a hole in the wall to the right, over Elizabeth Charles’s head. The man staggered on his wounded leg and pumped the shotgun’s action. Grimaldi lunged, driving the side of his foot into the knee of his adversary’s weight-bearing leg. The hardman howled as the joint broke, and he fired his shotgun convulsively into the ceiling. Grimaldi whipped his manacled hands out of his pocket and struck the man in the side of the head with both fists. As the Jamaican fell forward, the pilot brought his knee up into his jaw. The man’s eyes rolled in their sockets, and he fell face-forward to the floor.

Grimaldi jerked his head at Charles. “Come on. The cavalry’s arriving.”

She leaped to her feet. “Get the keys for the cuffs.”

Grimaldi went through the man’s pockets, then frowned. “He doesn’t have them.” He pulled the .45 Colt automatic from the unconscious man’s belt. “Come here, and hold out your hands as wide as possible.”

She grimaced unhappily but turned and held out her hands. Grimaldi pressed the muzzle of the .45 against the links of the handcuffs and fired. Charles flinched as the cuffs came apart. She rubbed at the powder burns on her wrists, then held out her hand. “Your turn.”

Grimaldi gave her the gun and held out his hands. He could hear the pounding of feet on the stairs and a door slamming on their floor. Charles placed the pistol between his manacles and fired. The pilot winced as burning gunpowder flared against the back of his wrists and the handcuffs jerked violently. The link twisted but held. He gritted his teeth. “Again.”

She shoved the .45 against the link and fired. Grimaldi’s hands jerked apart as the link gave. He shook his singed hands, then scooped up their fallen jailer’s shotgun. The Jamaican had fired twice, so there couldn’t be more than three shells left in the short riot weapon. Charles would have five left in the .45 automatic. Feet thundered on the wooden floor outside as men reached the second floor and ran down the hall toward them.

Grimaldi raised the shotgun to chest level and pointed it at the door.

Jon-Jon Smythe jumped to his feet as a pistol fired from outside the house.

King George looked up with a start as it was followed by the twin booms of a shotgun. The other five men in the room turned to Smythe as his scarred face twisted with anger.

“He’s here.”

Shouts reverberated from the other rooms, and several women began to scream throughout the house. King George pulled his massive frame off the couch and picked up a gold-plated .41 Magnum gun from the table in front of him.

Smythe glowered with rage. “It’s the white boy,” he said. “The terminator man. He’s come for his friends. He’s come for us.”

King George cocked his big revolver, his gold teeth flashing as he licked his dry lips. “No, it’s impossible. He was up on the mountain less than forty-five minutes ago, raising hell with the Swiss. How could he be here?”

Suddenly a shotgun went off in the room directly above their heads. There was a second shot, and something fell with a thump. Smythe looked over at Dinny Moore. “Take two men. Go upstairs and kill the pilot and the DEA woman. Now!”

Moore nodded, he and the other two men already drawing their pistols as they ran from the room. Smythe turned and walked to the oak bookcase. Shrugging his injured arm out of its sling, he stared at the cast for a moment, then with a snarl, whirled and smashed his arm against the case. The cast shattered, and he ripped away the clinging shards of plaster with his fingers. He took a deep breath and extended his arm. It was stiff, and it hurt like hell, but the limb obeyed him. Flexing his hand into a fist, he went over to the couch and picked up his sawed-off shotgun from the coffee table, pulling back both hammers. With his other hand he withdrew his nickel-plated .357 Magnum pistol from the holster at the small of his back. The other two men stared at him as he cocked it. He glared back at them.

You two, get your rifles. Get Harvey and Max.” He turned to King George. “I have a plan.”

King George noted the mad look in Smythe’s eyes. He swallowed. “Lead on. We’ll do it your way.”

Mack Bolan moved. The entrance to the house was an open foyer that widened into a sprawling living room on one side and a closed double door on the other. He stepped over the body of the dead doorman and raised the Desert Eagle as he entered. Four men and two women occupied the living room. One of the men rose from his position on the couch and pushed a woman to the floor as he reached for an AK-47 rifle on the table in front of him.

The Executioner put the front sight of his pistol on the man’s chest and the big .44 roared twice. The man shuddered and fell back onto the couch in a heap. Samuels’s shotgun roared behind Bolan, sending one of the seated men toppling to the floor as he tried to draw his pistol. Another hardman on the couch lifted the coffee table and held it in front of himself as a shield, yelling out at the same time.

The Executioner fired rapidly three times. The heavy .44 Magnum rounds blew huge ragged holes in the wooden table, collapsing the man behind it. The fourth gunner rose and worked the action of his pistol, but Samuels’s shotgun roared again, sending his target to the ground. Bolan’s ally broke open the action of his shotgun and was pulling his last two shells from his pocket, when the soldier shouted a warning. “Down!”

The Jamaican went prone as a man charged down the stairwell, a pistol firing in each hand. Bolan crouched as he swung the Desert Eagle around and fired. The charging gunner’s head tilted crazily as the .44 Magnum round hit him in the throat, and he tumbled headlong down the stairs in a spray of blood. The light at the top of the stairs suddenly went out, and the Executioner flung himself to one side as an automatic rifle fired a long burst. Samuels’s shotgun thumped as he fired a barrel up the stairs, then hurled himself out of the line of fire. Bullets smashed plaster out of the wall above his head as he crouched in the corner. The rifle suddenly fell silent. The two women in the living room began to scream.

Bolan whispered to Samuels as he nodded his head at the stairs. “Fire!”

The Jamaican whipped around the corner and fired his other barrel. As he ducked back, the stairwell lit up with a long answering burst. The Executioner stepped out of cover and put his sights on the shadow behind the pulsing flame at the top of the stairs. The Desert Eagle roared three times in succession and the gunman fell against the railing, then crumpled to the carpeted steps.

Weapons began discharging upstairs. Samuels tossed his empty shotgun to the floor and unslung the 9 mm Uzi. Bolan ejected the spent magazine from his pistol and snapped in a new one. He raised an eyebrow at the noise from above. Someone was having a firefight, and he had a good idea who it was.

He pressed the slide release and the big pistol’s action cracked forward into battery. His eyes widened at a sudden, second muted clacking noise. He had been in too many battles not to instantly recognize the sound of AK-47 rifle safeties coming off.

“Down!” he roared.

The closed double doors on the other side of the stairs erupted in a fountain of splinters as the rifles fired through them on full automatic. Then the gunfire suddenly stopped, and Bolan could hear the metallic clacking of weapons being reloaded behind the doors. He whirled at the sound of footsteps on the porch stairs, followed by a deep voice bellowing, “I see you, Nicholas Samuels!”

A shotgun with its barrels sawed down to the grip extended through the front door and lit up the foyer with orange fire. As Samuels turned to shoot back, his leg was violently kicked out from under him. The Executioner fired at the doorway, but the weapon-wielding arm had already withdrawn. Rifles began to blast through the front windows, then the men behind the doors opened up as well. Bolan and Samuels crouched beneath the sudden storm of fire. The Executioner and Samuels were in a cross fire. They had been flanked.

The door burst open and Jack Grimaldi fired his shotgun. A Jamaican bearing a similar shotgun lurched into the men behind him as he took the full pattern of buckshot in the chest. The pilot pumped the shotgun’s action at the doorway filled with armed men, while Charles knelt and fired her liberated .45 Colt with both hands. The head of one of the Jamaicans snapped back as he took the slug in the face. A third man stood in the doorway, trying to bring his pistol to bear as two of his companions in front collapsed against him. Grimaldi fired his shotgun again, sending his adversary stumbling back against the far wall of the hallway before collapsing. All three men lay in a tangled heap in the doorway.

Down the hall an automatic rifle began to fire in long bursts. Grimaldi pumped his shotgun’s action as he moved forward. Crouching, he whipped around the doorjamb. A Jamaican stood at the top of the stairs and fired another extended burst from an automatic Ruger Mini-14 carbine. Suddenly the man shuddered, as if he had been struck by a sledgehammer. Grimaldi nodded. The booming roar of Bolan’s Desert Eagle was unmistakable. The Jamaican collapsed against the railing. Stepping over the bodies in the doorway, Grimaldi scooped up the fallen shotgun as rifles began to fire from below. He pulled a 9 mm Hi-Power from one of the gunmen’s hands and stuck it in his belt. Charles found another .45 pistol, and she covered her companion as he moved down the hallway toward the stairs. Grimaldi crouched at the darkened landing and looked down.

Bolan crouched in a corner, while across from him an Uzi-bearing Jamaican grimaced in pain as he twisted a bandanna around his bloody leg. Bullets were striking above their heads from all directions. Grimaldi couldn’t see the enemy firing from within the house, but from his vantage point he could see the men outside. A man on the porch steps was firing his rifle blindly through the doorway, and through the front windows the strobing flash of automatic rifles pulsed into the house. The Stony Man pilot aimed his shotgun at the rifleman on the porch steps and blew him backward into the night. He shouted as Bolan swung the huge muzzle of the Desert Eagle, pointing it up the stairs.

“Striker!”

The muzzle swung back down, and Bolan held up a clenched fist. It was the military hand signal to stay put. Grimaldi crouched lower as the Executioner reached down and drew something from his belt.

Bolan considered his options. He had two grenades left—a high explosive and a white phosphorous. His hand curled around the WP, and he pulled its pin. Glancing up at the overhead light, he raised the Desert Eagle and fired. The lamp shattered in a pulse of sparks, plunging the foyer into semidarkness. Bolan crawled across the floor as the Jamaicans began their cross fire again. He reached the double doors and slit his eyes as splinters exploded out of it directly over his head, leaving the door more holes than wood.

The Executioner pulled back his arm, then punched his fist through the besieged door. Dropping the armed grenade inside, he yanked his arm out as he rolled to one side, a storm of bullets blindly tracking after him.

The door shuddered as the grenade detonated, and the dozens of bullet holes lit up with bright white light. The rifle fire within the room ceased abruptly, and men began to scream in agony as the burning phosphorous streamed in all directions, thick white smoke oozing out through the bullet-riddled doors.

“Jack,” Bolan shouted, “let’s move!”

The Executioner rolled into a crouch and pulled the pin on the high explosive grenade. In the open it would have little effect, but all he needed from it was a moment’s distraction. He told Samuels to stay put as he released the safety lever.

On the move, he hurled the grenade out one of the front windows. The remaining shards of glass in the window-frames blew in from the concussive wave, and the front porch lit up with orange fire.

The Executioner came out the front door with the Desert Eagle held in both hands. A hardman Jamaican with an AK-47 stood by the Saab, shaking his head violently from the blast of the high explosive grenade. The big .44 bucked in Bolan’s hands as he put two rounds into the man, hammering him to the ground. Swiveling, the soldier put his front sight on a second rifleman a dozen feet away on the lawn. The Desert Eagle roared twice more, and the man twisted and fell before he could fire. The weapon cracked open on a smoking empty chamber, as Jon-Jon Smythe rose from between two BMWS parked on the drive, leveling a gleaming revolver at Bolan.

“Now you die!”

There was no time to reload. Bolan dropped the Desert Eagle and drew the silenced Beretta pistol, his thumb pushing the selector switch to 3-round-burst mode even as the weapon cleared leather.

Smythe’s revolver boomed and the muzzle-flash of the .357 Magnum revolver lit up the night. Bolan felt the wind of the bullet’s passage as it flew by his head and heard its supersonic crack. He took a split second to steady the Beretta in a two-handed hold and take aim at Smythe’s midriff. As the Jamaican brought his pistol down for another shot, Bolan fired.

The Beretta stitched a 3-round trail up Smythe’s chest and the big Jamaican staggered. Dragging the pistol’s aim down, Bolan hit Smythe again. The Jamaican’s gun fired high and wide as the soldier fired a third burst into him. Smythe’s head jerked as a bullet struck him in the face. He fell backward and sprawled heavily onto the grass.

One of the BMWS suddenly hit Bolan with its headlights on full. The Executioner squinted against the glare, then dived across the porch as a heavy pistol roared at him. The BMW’s engine snarled into life. Gravel spit into the air as the car shifted into reverse, the tires digging into the drive.

Bolan rose and pushed the Beretta’s selector to single shot. Putting the weapon’s sights between the vehicle’s glaring headlamps, he raised his aim, firing round after round into the car’s windshield. A shotgun roared from the front door and another handgun began to let loose rapidly into the backing vehicle.

The Beretta cracked open, and Bolan hit the magazine release and let the spent clip fall as he drew his last spare. Grimaldi’s shotgun roared twice more and the BMW’s headlights shattered. Charles’s handgun cycled dry. Bolan slapped in his fresh magazine and leveled the Beretta at his target, his eyes narrowed.

The BMW continued to back up, but it had slowed to a crawl as though the driver was no longer giving it gas. The car backed a few feet more, then came to a stop in the middle of the lawn and sat idling.

The Executioner stood and approached the vehicle warily, the Beretta extended in both hands. He came to the driver’s window and peered in. King George’s massive bulk sagged in the driver’s seat, the front of his white silk suit awash with blood.

Bolan reached into the car and turned off the engine. He took the keys from the ignition and held them up, using the firelight from King George’s house to locate the keys to the second BMW on the ring.

Grimaldi and Charles knelt over Nicholas Samuels. He had crawled to the porch, with his pistol gripped in his hand, to join the fight, and he had left a wide trail of blood behind him. Bolan glanced at his wounded leg. “How are you?”

Samuels smiled weakly. “I’ll live.”

Charles spoke. “He’s got about three or four buckshot in his leg. One of them is close to a major artery, if not in it. He needs medical attention.”

Bolan nodded. “Here, I’ll help Jack get him into the back of the car.”

Bolan jerked his head at the car. “You like Beamers?”

Charles looked over at the BMW convertible 325i still in the parking circle. “I like Corvettes better.”

Bolan tossed her the BMW’s keys. “Too bad.”

25

“Stop the van,” Herman Delevaux ordered.

Guy Tell brought the van to a halt, and the two men looked out at King George’s estate. Flames roared into the night sky from the burning roof. In the glow Delevaux could see bodies littering the lawn and a BMW sitting in the middle of the grounds, riddled with bullet holes.

Tell shook his head. “We should leave. The fire brigade will be here soon, and when they see the bodies, so will the police. We have already had to explain a fire at the complex tonight. It will look very suspicious if we are caught at the site of another.”

The old man frowned. “No. Have the rear Land Rover turn around and head toward town. Get them to radio us as soon as they see either the police or the fire brigade coming this way. I want to go on the grounds.”

“Very well.” Tell spoke into the radio and the rear Land Rover peeled off and headed back toward Kingston. The lead vehicle and the van pulled onto the grounds of the estate. The van drew to a stop on the drive, and the men in back deployed, their rifles ready. Delevaux got out with his pistol drawn.

The house was completely engulfed by fire. Flames shot into the sky, sending embers drifting up into the night like swarms of fireflies. Delevaux stood for a moment and watched the house burn.

Tell flipped off his rifle’s safety and approached the car in the middle of the grounds. He glanced through the shattered windshield and grimaced at the carcass inside. He turned to the old man. “King George is dead.”

Delevaux nodded absently. He had expected as much. He stared hard at his personal Saab automobile. The American had left it there for him as a calling card. The police would also be interested to know why his car was at the site of a burning battlefield. Even with the bribes he was paying them, it would be hard to explain.

As Tell approached the front of the house, the heat of the fire washed across him. He poked several of the bodies strewed about the lawn. All were dead, and he could smell the stench of more burning corpses on the hot wind coming from the house. He stopped and knelt when he came to the body of Jon-Jon Smythe. The big Jamaican’s chest was riddled with bullet holes. One side of his head was matted with blood where a bullet had hit him, and it ran down across his scarred face. His nickel-plated revolver was still clutched in one hand, and his sawed-off shotgun lay a few feet away. Tell felt a grudging respect for Smythe. At least the man had died going forward, not fleeing like his leader King George.

The man started as Smythe suddenly opened his eyes and stared at him dazedly. “My head hurts,” he groaned.

Tell grinned. “You are very hard to kill.”

Smythe’s eyes focused. “So is the white boy, but he is better at staying healthy.”

Tell poked the Jamaican’s chest and felt the unyielding material beneath his jacket. “You are wearing a vest.”

Smythe closed his eyes again. “I need to buy a helmet,” he muttered.

The Swiss hardman pulled Smythe’s dreadlocks aside and looked at his head. A bullet had dug a ragged crease along the side of his head from his temple to above his ear. His skull showed through the bloody furrow, but the bone seemed to be intact. Smythe would have another scar. “Barring any brain hemorrhaging, I believe you will live.” Smythe grunted and kept his eyes closed.

“The woman and the pilot,” Tell said, “are they dead, or did the American rescue them?”

It took a moment for the Jamaican to respond. “He came. He got them. He brought Nicholas Samuels with him. I put some hurt on the Rasta boy, put them in a cross fire, but then everything exploded into blood and fire.”

Smythe’s eyes closed again. Tell suspected he probably had a concussion. A brain hemorrhage was very likely.

Tell motioned at two of his men. “Put Mr. Smythe in the van. Be careful.” He rose and turned to the old man. “The American has liberated his friends. Nicholas Samuels is wounded.” He glanced around the drive. “King George had two BMWS. One is missing. I suspect the Americans have taken it.”

Delevaux nodded. “Alert the police that four armed criminals are in a stolen BMW. Tell them one is wounded and to watch the hospitals. They may drop off Samuels or try to sneak him into a doctor. Make sure the police we are bribing are aware of this.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. Have one of my men drive my car back to the facility.” The old man holstered his pistol. “Then I want Samuels’s family found and killed. Tomorrow we’ll sweep the whole mountain. I also want the man, the woman and the pilot dead by tomorrow evening. We will rent a helicopter. If the Americans do not abandon Samuels, he Will slow them down, or else they will go into hiding. Offer the locals any amount of money they want for information or help in tracking them down. I want Samuels’s own relatives to betray what they know. I want you to take charge of it personally, Guy.”

Tell nodded and slung his rifle. “Rest assured. I will kill them myself.”

Elizabeth Charles took the BMW through the streets of Kingston. Bolan turned to Grimaldi. “How is Samuels doing?”

Grimaldi frowned. “He’s bleeding pretty bad.”

Charles glanced over at Bolan. “Where am I headed?”

The soldier watched the streets as they slid by and came to a decision. “The airport.”

“What’s the plan?” Grimaldi asked.

You three are getting out of town.” The agent looked at him hard. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re heading back to the States. You two are registered at the hotel, and the woman behind the desk may have contacted the police, or King George’s people may have talked to their informants in the police department. The bad guys have both your descriptions. Mr. and Mrs. Udolf have to disappear.”

She shook her head. “I don’t like it.”

Bolan shrugged. “You don’t have to. You yourself said that Nicholas needs medical attention. I’m not about to dump him at a hospital in Kingston where he’ll be at the mercy of the police and whoever may be paying them. We have a full emergency medical kit on the plane, and Jack can have him in Miami in an hour with a medical team waiting on the tarmac.”

“And what are you going to do?”

The Executioner’s eyes went cold. “I’m going to hit them. Tonight.”

Charles stared at Bolan. “You’re insane.”

“They’ll never expect it.”

She shook her head. “How?”

Bolan looked out the window. “I’ll go in HAHO, set charges and blow the place sky-high.”

Grimaldi looked up from the back seat. “HAHO? From a Lear?”

“From the Lear.”

“What’s HAHO?” Charles asked.

“It’s a parachuting term,” Bolan replied. “High altitude, high opening. You jump out at maximum altitude so no one sees you, and you open high so you have a long flight time. It allows you a long time to get to where you want and set up a pinpoint landing.” He glanced back at Grimaldi. “Can we do it?”

The pilot bit his lip in thought. “You could get sucked into one of the engines, or cut in two by the tail the instant you go out the door.” He looked at the Executioner. “A Lear is a business jet. Clandestine airborne operations weren’t exactly in the design specifications.”

“What if you went to maximum altitude and dropped the jet to stalling speed?”

“The tail is still going to come at you like a five-foot meat cleaver.”

“So roll the plane on its side. I can fall straight out rather than jumping. It would shave a couple tenths of a second out the door.”

Grimaldi stared straight ahead for a moment, then shrugged and grinned. “It could work.” His face became serious. “How are we supposed to extricate you, assuming I don’t carve you like a roast on the way out the door?”

Bolan leaned over the seat and spoke to Samuels. “Do you think you can arrange something if we get you a phone?”

Samuels looked up. His face was ashen, but his gaze was steady. “You remember your first fun and games with the Swiss, when you met me?”

Bolan nodded.

Samuels nodded back. “Good. Remember your route back down the mountain, down to the beach by the bar? Get me a phone, and I can have a boat waiting there for YOU.”

Grimaldi looked down at him. “Are you sure?”

The Jamaican gave him a thumbs-up sign such as he had seen Bolan and Grimaldi give each other. “Watch me.”

26

The Executioner stood in the cabin of the jet and grunted under the weight of his arsenal. He was in his full battle rig, with the M-4 Ranger carbine and its attached 40 mm grenade launcher clipped to his harness. He carried the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, the Beretta 93-R and the snub-nosed 9 mm Centennial revolver, as well as spare ammunition and grenades. He wore full, threat level III body armor under his combat suit and a coil of rappeling rope was tightly cinched around his shoulders. In a spare pack he carried C-4 plastic explosive and a coil of flexible charge and detonators. His night-vision goggles and fighting knives rounded out the load. On top of all that was the weight of his parachute and his bail-out oxygen bottle. A smile ghosted across Bolan’s face. Going out the jet’s door couldn’t really be that dangerous. With his load he ought to drop like a stone.

Grimaldi’s voice came over the intercom. “I’m taking her up to altitude, Mike.”

Bolan checked his buckles and straps a final time as the jet nosed up into a steep climb.

Charles looked at him critically and held up an open insulated bottle. “last chance for some coffee. You look like you might need it.”

The soldier shook his head. He had been running and fighting for the past forty-eight hours, and he was wearier than he wanted to admit. But he wasn’t worried about falling asleep. The moment he exited the jet, he had no doubt he would be wide awake.

The jet started to vibrate, as it reached the upper limits of its engine’s ceiling, the turbojets beginning to strain to maintain thrust in the thin upper air.

Grimaldi’s voice came over the intercom again. “I’m going to depressurize. Everyone who’s staying aboard strap in. Start your oxygen now.”

Bolan pulled up his mask and turned on the oxygen flow from his bail-out bottle. Charles took a reclined chair next to Nicholas Samuels, strapping an oxygen mask over his face, before pulling on her own mask and belting herself into the chair. Bolan’s ears popped as the air pressure bled off from the cabin. Grimaldi spoke again. “Two-minute warning, Mike.”

Bolan moved to the door of the aircraft. The jet shuddered as Grimaldi slowed it to as close to a stalling speed as he dared, but the Executioner had no illusions. When the door opened he would be sucked out into an icy wind of at least a hundred knots. He braced himself in the doorway and put one hand on the handle.

“Commencing roll now, Striker. Get ready.”

The Executioner felt gravity shift as the plane began to roll onto its side. The stalling alarm went off in the cockpit, and Grimaldi shouted.

“Now or never, Mike. Go!”

Bolan slammed the door handle in its slot and the handle tore out of his hand as the cabin door flew open violently. He released his grip on the doorframe and let the howling wind do its work as he plunged downward into howling, freezing darkness.

The icy wind shrieked all around him, tumbling him end over end. The silvery gleam of the jet’s tail slewed by Bolan like the fin of a giant shark, missing him by only a few yards, the jet’s wash skewing him sideways. Once clear of the plane, he stuck out his arms and legs in a hard arch, stabilizing his tumbling fall. He could see the aircraft drop below him, turning back over onto its belly as Grimaldi dived to restart his stalled engines. Twin thumping noises penetrated the howling wind as the engines reignited and the plane shot away into the night.

Bolan checked the luminous dial of the altimeter strapped to his wrist. It read 29,000 feet, and it was falling rapidly. He reached up to his chest and pulled the rip cord. The drogue chute popped out in the rushing wind and filled. The soldier felt its sudden drag, and a split second later his main chute deployed. The straps of his harness surged brutally against him as the chute opened against the full weight of his body and his gear. He reached up as the pressure eased, took hold of the steering toggles and began to guide his descent.

He looked down at the earth. The entire island of Jamaica was visible to him, a large dark shadow intermittently lit by the lights of the towns. The Caribbean Sea was a lighter shadow surrounding the island, its waters reflecting the starlit night. Bolan aimed himself at the glowing lights on the southern end of the island that was Kingston. Mentally drawing a line, he adjusted his descent toward Juan De Bolas Mountain. High on the Mountainside he could see the glimmer of the Delevaux Pharmaceutical complex through the trees. He slowed his descent as he felt the updraft from the mountain pushing against him. As he drew closer, he leaned into his left steering toggle and began to draw long lazy circles in the air to slow his descent even more. When the complex grew clearer, he pulled down his night-vision goggles and turned them on.

Many of the roof lights had been shattered by the exploding helicopter, and the aircraft’s mangled frame still lay on the roof, surrounded by debris. A patrol of men walked by the front of the main building and continued on. Bolan picked an open spot on the roof and sailed down toward it. At the last moment Bolan yanked hard on his toggles and brought the parachute to an almost complete stall. His boots tapped lightly onto the roof, and he bent his knees as his body suddenly took the full weight of his equipment. His parachute began to collapse and fall around him. He was down.

Gathering his lines, he pulled the parachute into a loose wad of material and shoved it under the burnt-out helicopter. He flipped the buckles on his jump straps and shrugged out of his harness. Crouching, he surveyed the surroundings while he pulled his suppressor out of his web gear and threaded it onto the barrel of the Beretta. From his vantage point he could see a pair of armed three-man teams walking the grounds counterclockwise to each other. Unclipping his Ranger carbine, he slung it behind his back as he waited until the two patrols were opposite each other at the front and back of the complex. There was little on the side of the roof to attach his rappeling rope to, so he looped it around the skid of the demolished helicopter. He played out the rope to the edge of the roof, then tugged on it to make sure it would bear his weight.

Bolan kicked out, twisting face downward as he walked down the building in the Australian assault style, the muzzle of the Beretta extended before him. It took less than three seconds to reach the roof of the factory warehouse. He cut his remaining length of rope and loosely coiled it. Pulling his night-vision goggles onto his forehead, he glanced up at the stars. The night was just beginning to take on a purple hue. Soon it would be dawn. After the first attack and the attack on King George’s estate, the Swiss wouldn’t be expecting a third assault in the same evening. Surprise and firepower would have to even odds that were probably at least sixty to one.

Pulling the goggles back over his eyes, the Executioner moved to the center of the processing building’s roof. A domed ventilator turned slowly in the evening breeze, and Bolan looped his second coil of rope around it. Beside the ventilator was a window of opaque glass that let in light but couldn’t be seen through. Reaching into a pouch, he took out his glass cutter, a pneumatic suction cup with a blade that could circle the cup like a compass. He pressed the cup against the glass and with the pump button created a vacuum that held it tightly in place. Drawing a circle around the cup slightly larger than the circumference of his arm, Bolan grasped the cup’s grip and shoved. The circle of glass pushed through with a snick. Slowly Bolan pulled his arm and the cut piece of glass back through the hole. He put the glass aside and took out his heavy glass cutter. Supporting the pane through the hole he had made, he cut the four-foot window around the edges. Grunting as he took the awkward weight of the window on one arm, he carefully lifted it aside.

He dropped his rope through the glassless window and slid into the manufacturing plant. Halfway down he paused and scanned the interior. Nothing moved. He glanced around the edge of the ceiling and caught sight of the shattered remnant of the security camera he had shot out earlier, then slid the remaining distance to the floor.

The machinery sat idle and silent in the darkness, and Bolan moved to the big cylinder of ether. He reached into his demolitions pack and pulled out a stick of C-4 plastic explosive and a roll of black tape. The ether was highly volatile, a gas that under the pressure inside the cylinder would be compressed to liquid form. Fixing the C-4 to the cylinder, he placed a radio-signaled detonator into the explosive before moving over to the acetone tank. He put another stick of C-4 against the side of that tank and placed the radio detonator. Three sticks remained, so he taped two more to the acetone tank.

Moving back to the ether cylinder, he uncoupled the pressure hose, then twisted the valve ring until the cylinder hissed as ether began to escape into the air. He went swiftly to the rope and began to climb hand-over-hand to the roof. Ether was a potent anesthetic, and he knew if he lingered he would be rendered unconscious.

Bolan reached the roof of the warehouse and moved quickly to the rope that dangled from the main building. He planted a boot against the wall and began to walk up. Below him the manufacturing wing would be filling with ether. When the charge of C-4 on the cylinder blew, it would go off like a bomb, and that explosion would ignite the gas that was filling the warehouse. The compound effect would be horrendous.

The manufacturing wing was literally a giant fuel-air bomb waiting to go off.

He mounted the roof of the main building and moved to the opposite side as he took out his radio detonator. Bolan checked his watch and decided to wait a few more minutes to let the escaping gas fill the warehouse. Flipping the plastic shield off the control panel, he pushed the arming button, and a small green light winked at him. Everything was ready. He lightly rested his thumb on the detonator button and waited out the minutes.

Herman Delevaux sat at his desk and brooded. He had been forced to call Switzerland, and the consortium wasn’t pleased with the state of affairs. Tell sat on the couch and wearily rubbed his eyes. Delevaux sighed heavily. It had been a very long and disturbing night, and he needed a few hours of sleep. Then they would begin the hunt. Tell looked up at him, his rifle held across his knees.

The old man waved at him. “Go and get some sleep. We can accomplish nothing more tonight. Tomorrow will be very busy.”

Tell nodded, leaning his rifle against the couch as he rose. Both men looked up in alarm as a strange rumbling sound suddenly shook the floor.

“Get down!” Tell shouted. Thunder rolled in through the room’s window, glass shattered in a storm of shards. Thunder claps rolled, one after another, and orange fire lit up the night. Intense heat pushed through the shattered windows and washed over the two men. Tell squinted over his forearm and saw streamers of fire rising into the night as another explosion shook the building. Outside, the fire was so bright that he couldn’t look at it directly.

He groped for his rifle. The old man was wrong. There would be no tomorrow. The enemy was here, and soon all would be decided. Tell rose into a combat crouch and flicked off the safety on his rifle.

Bolan ducked behind a ventilator housing on the roof of the main building as huge portions of the manufacturing wing were lifted high into the air on columns of fire. His ears rang from the blast and the secondary explosions. Pressing himself against the ventilator as burning debris fell around him, he waited long moments for the explosions to die down. When the debris stopped falling onto the roof, he rose and moved as close to the edge of the building as the intense heat allowed.

The manufacturing wing had disappeared. Huge columns of flame roared into the sky where the building had stood.

With his rope gone and the side of the main building he had rappeled on fire, the only way down was through the main building itself. Bolan looked around the rest of the grounds. Men were boiling out of the main building and the dormitory wing. The main explosion had sheered the pumps from the fueling station for the trucks and Jeeps of the facility, and burning gasoline was jetting into the sky. Within seconds the underground tank would ignite and blow. He glanced at the far end of the compound by the airstrip. The fuel truck was less than two hundred yards away. Bolan loaded an antiarmor round into the M-203 grenade launcher and flipped up its sight. He doubted anyone would pinpoint the dull noise of the M-203’s report over the fire and explosions rocking the complex. He centered his sights and fired. The weapon recoiled sharply against his shoulder, and the 40 mm grenade arced toward the fuel truck. The armor-piercing grenade was designed to penetrate light armored vehicles, and the thin skin of the fuel truck’s tank was no obstacle to the shaped charge warhead. The grenade slammed into the truck broadside and sent a stream of superheated gas and molten metal into the tank. The truck lifted off its wheels as hundreds of gallons of aviation fuel ignited. The Executioner moved back to the ventilator housing. Loading a high-explosive grenade into the M-203, he crouched and leveled the M-203 at the roof door and fired. The grenade struck the steel security door, exploding it in a burst of yellow fire.

Bolan rose and entered the main building.

Herman Delevaux spoke into the intercom. “What is the status of the manufacturing wing?”

Oswald’s voice came breathlessly over the speaker. “It is gone! The whole building is gone! The fueling station is burning, and there is a fire on the airstrip.” His voice tightened. “Sir, the main building is on fire. I do not believe we can save it. I suggest you leave immediately.”

“Thank you, Oswald. Get the men into some semblance of order. They are running around the grounds like chickens.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The old man clicked off the intercom and looked at Tell. The man stood with his rifle in his arms and watched the flames climbing the side of the building. “It must have been a bomb, perhaps from one of their stealth fighters,” Delevaux said.

Tell shook his head and continued to stare at the flames. “The United States would not conduct air attacks against a friendly country. The entire manufacturing wing is gone. It was done with set charges, by someone who knew exactly what he was doing.”

Delevaux stared at him. “You think the American is here?”

Above their heads another explosion boomed, and its echo thundered down the stairwell. Tell smiled calmly and looked up at the ceiling. “Yes, he is here.” He turned and looked at the old man. “He will come for you now. You should get downstairs. Have Oswald seal off the building and send me twenty armed men. Have the rest prepare to evacuate.” He moved to the door. “I will deal with the American.”

The Executioner reached the top floor landing. Kicking open the door, he hurled a frag grenade into the hallway. Shrapnel shrieked off the walls, and as the grenade detonated, he penetrated the hallway with a leading burst from his M-4 carbine. The sprinkler system had come on, but the hall itself was silent. Bolan kicked open the first door he came to. As the door crashed in, another door down the hall was flung open.

He dived into the room as a burst of automatic rifle fire tore into the doorframe above his head. He rolled to his feet and swept the room with the muzzle of his carbine. It was empty except for a series of filing cabinets. He turned and snapped a burst into the hallway. There was no answering burst. Bolan’s face tightened—his opponent was waiting for him. Taking a flash-stun grenade from his belt, he armed it and threw it into the hallway, then whirled, slamming shut the door to the filing room.

The door shuddered under the concussive wave and brilliant white light shot out from beneath the door-frame. Bolan pulled his night-vision goggles over his eyes and flung Open the door. The overhead fluorescent light fixtures had been shattered by the shock wave, and sparks fell from the wiring. The sprinkler mains had burst, and water poured in torrents from the ceiling. He moved down the hall toward the open door, firing his carbine in long bursts. He dropped into a crouch to fire, and the finger on his free hand curled around the trigger of the M-203 grenade launcher.

The M-4 carbine suddenly cracked open on an empty chamber, just as a tall figure snapped around the corner, leveling an automatic rifle.

The M-203 roared in Bolan’s hand, and the 40 mm personal defensive munition sent over four dozen buckshot into the man’s chest, smashing him off his feet. He slammed backward into the doorjamb, and he fell in a crumpled heap.

Bolan slid a new magazine into the carbine and racked a fragmentation grenade into the M-203’s breech, as he moved to the doorway. The man lay still, facedown. He had taken the full pattern of fire and it had nearly torn him in two. Beyond him was an office suite. The windows of the office were shattered, and the outside fire had set the curtains alight. Bolan took a white phosphorous grenade from his belt and pulled the pin. He tossed the bomb into the office. The white phosphorous element would continue to burn even in contact with the water from the sprinklers.

The Executioner moved to the stairs. Taking a fragmentation grenade from his belt, he armed the bomb, dropped it down the well, then sprinted up steps to the next landing and dropped flat. The grenade detonated and shrapnel shrieked and sparked off the walls of the stairwell. On the first-floor landing men screamed in pain.

Bolan kicked in the door to the second floor and hurled a frag grenade into the hallway. No returning fire answered. He took another white-phosphorous grenade from his belt and tossed it into the hall, slamming the door shut. The door shuddered as the bomb went off. The Executioner cat-footed down the stairwell to the first-floor landing, stepping over the body of an armed man in a coverall. He stood on the third step, out of the line of fire from the first-floor hallway. He noticed that the emergency door to the outside was opposite the hallway and the steel security door was closed.

The soldier fired the M-203 around the corner into the hallway, and the high-explosive grenade struck a wall and exploded. Glass from the first-floor offices shattered and the walls shook, but there was no return fire. Bolan knew what that meant—the Swiss had no desire to come in and hunt him down, and there was no need. The building was on fire. Sooner or later he would have to come out or succumb to the smoke and flames. Undoubtedly there was a lethal cross fire waiting for him at each of the building’s entrances. He would have to make his own exit. He calculated as he moved swiftly down the hallway.

The hall extended from one side of the building to the other, with the lobby in the middle. He would have a clear shot from one end to the other. He sprinted back to the emergency door and taped his last stick of C-4 to the bottom of the door. He inserted a detonator, then moved at a crouch down the hall to the fire side of the building. The Swiss hardmen were holding their fire, encouraging him to make some kind of break. Bolan met the far wall of the building and moved down a side corridor, out of view of the main hall. Taking out his coil of flexible shaped charge, he taped the entire coil in two loops on the wall. Inserting the detonator, he slid an armor-piercing projectile into the breech of the M-203, then took a deep breath. It was time.

Creeping to the corner of the hall, the Executioner fired the grenade at the emergency exit at the opposite side of the hall. The grenade impacted in the middle of the door, and its armor-piercing warhead fired. A stream of superheated gas and molten metal jetted through the steel barrier to the outside. Immediately bullets began to strike the door from the outside like a swarm of angry hornets. Bolan stepped deeper into the side corridor and pushed the remote detonator buttons on both explosive charges simultaneously.

Down the hall the emergency door blew off its hinges, flying onto the grounds in a ball of orange fire. The flexible charge went off with a hissing crack and blasted a blackened circle in the exterior wall. The interior of the circle was riddled with cracks, and the circle of the explosion was blasted deep into the wall. The Executioner drove his boot into the blasted area with all his strength, and the circular section of the wall trembled. With a second kick it gave, and he moved outside.

Bolan edged along the building. There was no door on that side, and the Swiss weren’t covering it. With any luck the fire and explosions at the door had covered his exit, and he doubted the Swiss had managed to repair the electric fence since the Land Rover had slammed into it earlier in the evening. With one quick sprint he could be in the forest. He slid the last 40 mm high-explosive projectile into the M-203. There was one last mission to perform.

He cat-footed along the burning building until he came to the corner. A squad of gunners were prone on the ground, pouring rifle fire into the emergency exit on the far side of the complex. Another group of men were clustered around a group of vehicles that were slowly moving toward the gate. They surrounded the two Land Rovers, the van and the car like infantry support, and sent suppressive fire into the front windows of the complex as the convoy retreated.

Bolan adjusted the ladder sight of the M-203. The range was approximately one hundred fifty yards, his target was the convertible Saab in the middle of the convoy. A large white-haired man in a white suit was turned around in the back seat, shouting orders. The Executioner let out half a breath and slowly squeezed the trigger of the M-203 grenade launcher.

Oswald put a rifle burst into the window of the front lobby as the caravan slowly moved toward the gate. He had his men flanking the vehicles on foot and pouring suppressive fire into the front of the main complex. His troop would remount once they had gotten past the gate and drive directly to the airport, where a consortium-owned C-130 Hercules transport would be waiting for them.

The hardman swept his eyes over the building. It was burning out of control. The old man sat in the back of his car, screaming at his men. He wanted the American dead. He had left Tell to kill him, but the American was still blowing up things. Oswald’s face tightened. He wouldn’t send his remaining men into that burning death trap. His men glanced at him as Delevaux raged on, and Oswald shook his head. A look of relief washed over the men’s faces.

Oswald suddenly brought his rifle to his shoulder as a shadow appeared at the far end of the complex. Even as the Swiss flicked the selector of his rifle to semiauto for an aimed shot, the corner of the building was lit by a large burst of pale yellow fire. Oswald fired, but the shadow had already disappeared behind the building. He recognized the hollow boom of a grenade launcher.

Grenade!” he roared as he hit the dirt.

He covered his head with his hands, the air above him filled with the sound of thunder and rending metal. He rose on his elbows and fired at the corner to keep his attacker from firing another grenade at them. His men began to fire, as well. He turned and looked at the convoy. The mangled Saab lay on its side, burning. Oswald could see the twisted bodies inside the wreckage and smell them as they charred. The old man was dead, King George was dead, Tell and Renatus Hallwyll were dead.

Oswald took a deep breath. The operation was over. He straightened. He was a soldier, and his duty now was to his men. He barked out his orders. “Mount up. We break formation at the foot of the mountain. Head to the airport. We have one hour.”

He pulled a whistle from his pocket and blew three shrill blasts. The second squad on the grounds rose and began an orderly retreat toward the gate. Oswald suddenly tensed as he heard the grenade launcher boom again, then he relaxed slightly as he heard windows breaking in the dormitory. The fire hadn’t reached that part of the complex yet. As he climbed into a Land Rover, white smoke crawled out of one of the open windows, and he knew the American was helping the process along. Oswald shook his head. They had been utterly defeated. By one man. He thought of Jon-Jon Smythe and his favorite phrase.

“Blood and fire,” he muttered under his breath.

Bolan moved out of the trees onto the beach. The sun was rising, its orange glow turning the blue water of the Caribbean and the white sand of the beach into a hundred shades of gold. Two men with long dreadlocks sat on the prow of a beached fishing skiff with shotguns held across their knees, dangling their legs in the surf. One of them started as Bolan appeared before him.

The Jamaican ran his eyes over the Executioner, taking in Bolan’s smoke-stained countenance and his armor. The man suddenly grinned. “You must be the Striker-Man!”

Bolan smiled tiredly. “I suppose that’s me.”

“I am Michael,” he said, then pointed to his companion. “This is Paul.”

The two men jumped off the prow and began to move the craft out into the water. Bolan set his rifle on the gunwale and put a shoulder to the boat as they pushed it past the wet sand until the water took the boat’s weight. The three of them vaulted into the boat and Paul went to start the engine.

Michael grinned at Bolan. “So, you know our Nicholas Samuels?”

Bolan nodded. “We’ve shared an adventure or two.”

“Ha!” Michael slapped his knee appreciatively. He squinted out across the water. “Tell me, Striker-Man, you ever been to Haiti?”

Bolan yawned and stretched. “Not lately.”

“It’s beautiful this time of year,” the Jamaican said. “You will love it there.”

EPILOGUE Mack Bolan entered the day-room of Miami General Hospital. Special Agent Theresa Antonio sat wrapped in a robe, and staring out at the bright blue Miami morning. She looked a little pale and had lost some weight, but she was much improved since Bolan had last seen her.

“You’re looking good.”

Antonio turned to Bolan. “No, I don’t.” She took in his casual civilian clothes and his deep tan. “You’re looking pretty sharp, though.” Bolan held out a large bag. “Here.”

Antonio peered at it. “For me?”

He nodded.

She reached into the bag and pulled out a large stuffed animal. Huge tufted ears dominated the furry creature’s head and it stared up at her in a vaguely bug-eyed fashion.

Bolan folded his arms across his chest. “It’s a koala bear.

She nodded and peered into its bulging eyes. “I know.” She looked up. “It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Bolan grinned. “It’ll remind you of me.”

Antonio grinned back. “I’ll sleep with it every night. I’ll name it Belasko.” She fiddled with the bear’s ears. “I’ve received some interesting news from the DEA branch office in Jamaica.”

“I thought you might.”

“Delevaux Pharmaceuticals burned to the ground. It seems King George got burned out, as well. The Jamaican Flake supply has completely dried up in Miami and in New York.”

“I hear you’re going to get the Citation of Valor,” Bolan said. “I bet you’ll get promoted.”

The DEA agent smiled wryly. “You’re changing the subject.”

“I’ll be sure to mention your cooperation and valor in my report.”

“I’d mention you in my report, Mr. Belasko, but somehow I think you’ll end up edited out of the official version.”

Bolan shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just an observer.”

Antonio’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me your real job title?”

He just smiled, then shook his head. “It was a pleasure working with you Agent Antonio. Enjoy the bear.”

Antonio looked down at the stuffed animal. “Maybe we’ll work together again sometime,” Bolan said.

The woman looked up, but the big man had already disappeared.

<(bm)>