Flight 741

by Don Pendleton

  Politics had always bored him to the point of tears. He could tolerate the bullshit just so long as contributions were arriving from the hinterlands, but Axelrod cared nothing for left or right, the red or black of modern terrorism. Green had always been his color, as in cash, and he was not averse to dealing with the Raven now because of anything the bastard might have done.

  What worried Axelrod was the risk of being caught.

  Vachon had seemed secure, professional, a man who knew his trade. The general consensus on Ramirez now was something else again. The man was a fanatic — possibly psychotic — and completely unpredictable in combat. That alone was cause enough for apprehension on the eve of a transaction like the one he had arranged with Paul Vachon.

  Still, there were the profits...

  "I assume that you are ready to indemnify me in the case of any... unexpected interference?"

  "Certainly."

  The Raven didn't even glance at Vachon before he spoke, and Axelrod was pleased to see a sudden touch of pallor on the Canadian's face.

  "Of course," Vachon echoed, sounding vaguely ill.

  "Then we're in business."

  "Excellent."

  They stood and shook hands all around, the Georgian faking joviality he didn't feel, his small right hand retreating to his pocket when they were finished with the ritual. He kept the plastic smile in place as he excused himself, remarking on the curse of jet lag. He felt their eyes upon him as he left the parlor, thankful that they could not watch him climb the stairs and hurry down the hallway toward his room, where Toby would be waiting for him now.

  The woman was window dressing, but he drew a certain comfort from her presence and the knowledge that she helped to keep his secret safely locked away. He recognized that she was beautiful — the Georgian might be gay, but he was far from blind — and knew that his disciples in the Brotherhood were envious. The girl had been a lucky find, more durable and less demanding than the others who had gone before.

  In time she would be bound to tire of the charade. And he was ready for it when it came. No leaks were tolerated in the Brotherhood, and when the role of mannequin got old, she would be dealt with like the others.

  A little midnight marksmanship, a final ride into the marshlands, and the latest in a line of sultry decoys would be gone, forgotten. There were always others waiting for the opportunity to grace a rich man's arm. But Axelrod refused to think about it anymore tonight. Right now he had other problems on his mind. A lover might have eased the tension, briefly, but reality would still be waiting for him on the other side of ecstasy, and it was better that he face the problem cold.

  The Raven was a wild card, introduced by Paul Vachon without a word of warning once the game was under way. The Georgian was within his rights to call the whole thing off, but having once rejected that alternative for private motives, he could only try to insulate himself, protect his flanks and cut his losses if the deal went sour overnight.

  Ramirez might be safe around Toronto, as he claimed, but his involvement in the recent skyjack had reopened ancient wounds, and agents from a half a dozen governments would certainly be searching for him. He might be held for trial or shot on sight, depending on who found him first — but either way, discovery right now would spell disaster for the Georgian. Even if he wasn't prosecuted, the publicity would scuttle everything that Axelrod had worked for over seven years. Considering the quality of membership attracted to the Brotherhood, he would be very lucky if the headlines only got him jailed, instead of killed.

  And neither of the grim alternatives appealed to Axelrod.

  But he was stuck with Paul Vachon, with Julio Ramirez, with their weapons lifted from the Steyr plant. He had $500,000 on the line, with stateside buyers guaranteed, and he could not afford to go home empty-handed. Not if he expected the assorted rednecks to keep coming back for more.

  It was a frigging shame, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He was committed to the deal, and he would see it through despite the risks.

  Next time around, though, he would look for a different supplier. He would not trust Vachon a second time.

  The Georgian didn't like surprises, and no living man had ever managed to surprise him twice. As for the dead, Vachon would have a chance to meet them, if the deal went sour in the morning. And Ramirez, too.

  He chuckled at the thought of the publicity he would achieve by killing Julio Ramirez. He would be an overnight sensation, hero of the Western world.

  Chapter Twenty

  The cemetery was an old one, rarely used from all appearances, its mausoleums and headstones larger, more ornate than those predominating in the latter-day facilities.

  Mack Bolan crouched, waiting in the shadow of a tomb. His thoughts were morbid, filled with death. It was a perfect killing ground, this cemetery. Anyone who bought it here would not have far to go.

  He was running out of patience, chafing at the quarter-hour delay since he had followed Paul Vachon and company from the estate in Scarborough, cutting off at Kingston Road and trailing at a distance till they reached the cemetery proper, watching through the twelve-foot wrought-iron gates as the Mercedes disappeared from sight. His rental Ford was parked one hundred yards behind him, tucked away behind a marble crypt.

  The sleek Mercedes sat another hundred yards downrange, half-hidden by a row of overhanging trees that lined the cemetery's winding access road. The Executioner could see enough from where he sat, however; he had seen Vachon with Axelrod and Toby Ranger, flanked by burly hardmen, bulges prominent beneath their jackets. Number six was still inside the car, chain-smoking in the driver's seat and darting nervous glances at the headstones all around.

  The outside flankers would be Axelrod's security, but Bolan read the driver as Vachon's. He wondered if the nervousness was something personal, or if the guy was privy to a double-cross in progress, finally deciding that it didn't matter either way. He had determined not to move no matter what went down, unless it threatened Toby's life somehow. Vachon could wait another day or two, until his business with the Georgian was concluded and the lady fed was safely out of range.

  The cemetery was a drop. Whatever deal the neo-Nazi had with Vachon, they were about to consummate it here, and Bolan had no abiding interest in the merchandise. His business with the Canadian would be carried out in privacy and darkness — later on tonight, perhaps — and he was seeking information, not a load of contraband.

  His target was the Raven.

  A kind of private demon, leering back at Bolan from his nightmares, laughing hollowly behind the rubber Nixon face. He knew what lay beneath the mask, had studied all the old composites and the fuzzy photos, and he was looking forward to the moment when that face was inches from his own, his fingers wrapped around the windpipe, watching eyes and swelling tongue protrude in death.

  Soon.

  The Executioner could wait as long as necessary, but a hot impatience wriggled in his bowels. He recognized the symptoms, knew that they could get him killed if he allowed impatience to control his mind.

  Bolan slipped a hand beneath his raincoat, doublechecked the sleek Beretta and the silver AutoMag. He knew the weapons were accessible within a heartbeat, but the contact made the waiting bearable once more. The sky was crystal overhead, the raincoat had been his concession to the possibility of mourners visiting their loved ones, but he was alone with Paul Vachon and company. Approaching twenty minutes now, without a sign of any other human being.

  As if in answer to his silent thoughts, an engine coughed to life on Bolan's right. It idled for a moment, revving echoes through the morning silence, finally dropping into gear and rumbling closer, passing slowly through the ranks of headstones, still invisible.

  The merchandise was coming, and Bolan knew that it was time to get a closer look. Vachon and Axelrod were standing in the middle of the narrow blacktop road, expectant, with the Georgian's burly gunners on either side. Beside the car, he caught a glimpse of Toby Ranger, staring raptly i
n the direction of the engine sound. Behind the wheel the driver was alert, his latest cigarette forgotten, dangling from his lower lip.

  And it was time to move, before their concentration broke and someone cast an accidental glance in his direction.

  Before it all ran out, perhaps forever, and he found a final resting place among the long-forgotten dead.

  * * *

  The pickup point had been Vachon's idea, and while he questioned the elaborate security precautions, Axelrod could see the dealer's point. If he was under any kind of regular surveillance, it would be insanity to store the weapons in his home, and if Vachon was as clean as he maintained, why take the chance in any case? A neutral drop was standard in the business, but there had been something in his choice of transfer points that set the Georgian's teeth on edge.

  He hadn't been afraid of spooks and bogeymen since he was eight years old. You couldn't make sufficient noise to wake the dead, not if you opened up with every AUG and submachine gun he was buying from Vachon.

  But it was the concrete fact of death, the chiseled stone reminders all around them, that had shaken Axelrod. The man from Georgia seldom dwelt upon his own mortality, convinced that when death found him there was nothing he could do about it. His obstinate refusal to take death seriously had extended into business. There was no one in the world he cared enough about to name as heir, and so he had no will. The greedy jackals who surrounded him would have to fight it out for every penny when he went, and it would serve the bastards right.

  He heard the engine before the six-ton rig lumbered into view. They must have been waiting in the cemetery since the crack of dawn, and Axelrod was irritated at the thought that he had wasted twenty minutes waiting for the load when it had been there all the time. At least Vachon was conscious of security precautions, though a tail would certainly have shown itself by now.

  Axelrod would have liked to put the weapons on a plane and fly them home, but he could not afford to gamble with the customs men. If anything went wrong, his ass was on the line, and he had no desire to spend the next few years inside some federal country club for losers. If the paperwork was clean, as Paul Vachon had promised, Jimmy Duggan would be stateside in an hour or two, and he could take his sweet time driving south.

  Vachon was smiling at him now, self-satisfied. He gestured toward the truck as it approached and said, "The merchandise."

  "I'd like to see a sample," Axelrod replied.

  "Of course."

  The smile remained in place, but Axelrod imagined that he saw a spark of irritation behind the Canadian's eyes. And that was fine. He hadn't flown to Canada and driven to the middle of a graveyard just to trade his money for the weapons sight unseen. He would examine three or four at random, maybe ask to fire some practice rounds.

  No, he wouldn't bother with a test fire. Paul Vachon was known for moving quality, and if he'd ever stiffed a customer, no memory of such an incident survived. The Georgian could have simply laid his money on the line, but there was principle involved. You never showed a dealer too much confidence — and that was doubly true of foreigners. If you appeared complacent, careless, they inevitably tried to screw you in the end.

  He smiled at that, a mental image of Vachon in leather coming to his mind, and quickly pushed the thought away as he concentrated on the truck. It lumbered to a halt some twenty feet from the Mercedes. The driver scrambled down, his shotgun rider cautiously remaining in the cab. The muzzle of an Uzi submachine gun nosed above the dashboard for a moment, then retreated out of sight.

  And in that moment he recognized the shotgun rider, placed him from the night before and from the countless fuzzy stills on network television.

  It might have been a burn, of course, but Axelrod was not concerned about that low. He knew that if Vachon had meant to kill him, he could easily have done it at the house. Unconsciously, the Georgian let himself relax. Another hour, and he would be sitting down with Toby at Lester Pearson International Airport, relaxing with a drink and waiting for the homeward flight.

  Another hour.

  Reaching back inside the limo, Axelrod retrieved the fat valise and handed it to Toby, swallowing a smile as Paul Vachon cast hungry eyes upon the bag. The Canadian obviously still had things to learn about the value of a poker face. His greed was like a neon sign across his forehead.

  "The merchandise?"

  "Of course."

  The driver of the van preceded them, released a paddock that secured the load and rolled the tailgate upward. Inside, the wooden crates were neatly stacked and labeled as machine parts.

  The driver scrambled up among the crates, a pry bar suddenly appearing in his hand. He chose a crate apparently at random, was about to pry its lid up when the Georgian shook his head.

  "The next one back," he said.

  Vachon looked irritated, but finally shrugged and nodded to the driver. Leaning back across the crates in front, the driver popped one in the second rank and laid the lid aside. He lifted out a submachine gun, snapped a magazine in place and passed it down to his employer.

  "The Steyr-Daimler-Puch MPi 69," Vachon said, almost lovingly. "Chambered for 9 mm parabellum. An improvement on the Uzi, with blowback operation on an advanced primer system. The wraparound bolt provides increased muzzle velocity and accuracy. A cyclic rate of 550 rounds per minute, and the weapon can be disassembled in a maximum of fifteeen seconds."

  Axelrod hefted the weapon, getting its feel, extracting the magazine, working the bolt. He had a sudden urge to fire the little SMG, to waste a magazine redecorating ranks of ancient headstones, but he let it pass.

  "All right." He handed the SMG back to Vachon. "The rifles now."

  * * *

  Stretched out among the dead, Carl Lyons watched the deal go down from fifty feet away, a stubby riot shotgun tucked beneath one arm. He had been lying motionless between the tombstones for something like two hours now, since following the van and gunners to their boneyard rendezvous. It had been less risky than pursuing Axelrod and Paul Vachon directly from the Canadian's walled estate, and the results had been identical. He had been waiting when the silver-gray Mercedes showed, and he was watching as the occupants unloaded, fanning out around the limousine.

  Vachon.

  The target, Gerry Axelrod.

  Two gunners standing by, a third behind the wheel.

  And Toby Ranger.

  The Able Team warrior felt his stomach turning over slowly as he recognized the lady from a distance. It had been a while, but there could be no mistake.

  And that changed everything.

  He had been braced to tackle Axelrod and company right here, to bag the Georgian and persuade him to discuss his contacts in Durango, his relationship with someone like the Raven, but with Toby in the cross fire, it would have to wait. Despite the churning eagerness inside, the urge to see it done, he would not jeopardize the lady fed or see her mission blown.

  Goddammit!

  He would have to follow Axelrod back home, attempt to infiltrate his hardsite there. It galled him when he thought of all the wasted time, but there appeared to be no alternative.

  The buyer was examining a submachine gun, drawing back the bolt, dry firing, finally returning it to Paul Vachon. The Canadian passed it to his gunner in the truck, and waited while the flunky handed down a futuristic-looking rifle. Lyons recognized the Steyr AUG, and whistled softly to himself.

  The neo-Nazi underground was stepping up in class from all their usual army-surplus hardware. They were going modern, and that spelled trouble for their countless enemies. They were girding up for Armageddon now, and once the weapons were in hand, the bastards would be itching for a chance to try them out on human targets.

  Except that Axelrod would never take delivery of this load in Georgia. Lyons was determined that the arms would not go through. Axelrod was bought and paid for, living out his days on borrowed time, and if he had connections with the Raven, if the contact in Durango had been anything beyond a fluke...

/>   The Able warrior's smile was grim, devoid of warmth. A killing smile. And he was looking forward to the moment when he faced this member of the "master race." A moment that might change the neofascist's life forever, or bring it to a close.

  His target was examining the rifle now, inserting a plastic magazine into the butt-stock receptacle behind the pistol grip and peering through the Steyr quick- reflex sight. He swept the muzzle in an arc across the ranks of tombstones, and for half a heartbeat Lyons thought he might be visible between the markers, but the moment passed and Axelrod returned the rifle to Vachon. It disappeared inside the truck once more, the tailgate was secured, the Georgian and the Canadian backtracked toward the Merc, where Toby waited with a fat valise in hand.

  The engine sound was jarring in the cemetery stillness, bringing Lyons's face around in the direction of the noise. A V-8, rapidly approaching from the same direction as the van, perhaps one hundred yards away and still concealed behind a line of trees that bordered on the curving drive. He slid the shotgun forward, eased the safety off, already sighting down the stubby barrel and prepared for anything before the Jeep growled into view.

  Prepared for anything except the Raven, riding shotgun in the Jeep and looking very much alive.

  The bastard had an AK-47 tucked beneath one arm, and he was smiling broadly at the evident effect that his appearance had on Gerry Axelrod. Vachon was shooting cautious glances at the Georgian, clearly worried that they might have blown the deal, and Axelrod was snapping questions at him, getting shrugs and noncommittal gestures in return.

  The Ironman couldn't catch their words, but it was clear enough that Axelrod was being asked to pay the Raven, rather than Vachon. The Georgian argued for a moment, finally took the fat valise from Toby, passed it to the terrorist and backed away. The Raven took a peek inside, seemed satisfied and nodded to his driver.