"Alchupa sent you?"
Al-Rhabin picked up on Red's emphasis on you.
"Why does that surprise you, my friend?"
"Why? Alchupa's got his own guns. I knew he'd be sendin' somebody for the son of a bitch that busted in on us. But why.?.."
"An Arab? My friend, the good colonel pointed out that he wanted to hire only the best. I am the best. His men, I assume, are soldiers, not assassins. And, my good friend, the colonel would be most unhappy to have heard you blubbering a few moments ago to the man I was sent here to kill. That is the point of all this."
"All what?"
"All of what I'm about to do."
"C'mon, give me a break. The damn guy got the drop on both of us. You cut me free, we can go into town and nail the bastard." Red lifted his legs several inches off the floor and looked imploringly at al-Rhabin. "C'mon, man, what the hell you waitin' for? You work for Alchupa, and so do I."
"I work for no man."
"Whatever you say, but just cut these ropes, huh? My hands and feet are goin' numb."
Al-Rhabin shrugged. The man was a lackey, not even worthy of a quick, clean death. Al-Rhabin decided to prolong the fool's terror and pain, if possible. Time was wasting, and the Syrian had more important tasks to see to. He was becoming bored with Red.
Bending at the waist, al-Rhabin sliced through the ropes around Red's legs, the jambiya cutting through the man's bonds as easily as a hot knife through butter.
"There. Feel better?"
Confused, Red stared at al-Rhabin. "What are you, a nut, or somethin'? Cut my hands loose now."
Bear groaned, stirred. Al-Rhabin nodded at Bear. "What about your comrade?"
"What about him? Dammit," Red growled, "you can take care of him in a minute."
"No. No good. I'll take care of him now."
Al-Rhabin's stare turned icy with menace. He moved in closer to Bear and laid the edge of the jambiya's blade against Bear's throat.
Red's jaw dropped. "What the... You're not... you're not goin' to..."
"Watch. And learn. I believe there are few quicker ways for a man to die than to have his throat cut. I would imagine he feels a split second of intense pain, then terror, then the blood flows, warm, sticky and sweet down his chest. Very rapid loss of blood. He slips into unconsciousness. He's dead."
Bear's eyelids fluttered open just as al-Rhabin pressed the blade against his pulsing carotid. Blood was caked and crusted black around Bear's lips, his jaw and mouth were swollen and discolored. Just before al-Rhabin dug the blade into flesh and sent the edge tearing across Bear's throat with a mighty swipe, Bear opened his mouth to scream. Al-Rhabin stepped back and felt the power, the rush of adrenaline as a torrent of blood burst from the gaping incision across Bear's throat.
"Jesus... Christ!" Red gasped, the color draining from his face as crimson splashed over the couch and spattered his legs. "Why... why are you doun' this?"
"There is no why," the Syrian told Red. "I just do." Al-Rhabin pointed the blade at Red, sticky crimson dripping off the tempered steel, large drops of blood spattering on the man's leg. "Now you, my friend..."
"Now me, nothin', you..."
As al-Rhabin had anticipated, Red lashed out with a kick aimed at his balls. Sidestepping the kick, al-Rhabin drove the edge of the blade down the length of Red's calf. Cloth and flesh yielded to razor-sharp steel. Red howled in agony and terror, his mutilated leg twitching.
There was no one around for miles, al-Rhabin knew, who could hear those screams.
With a backhand slash of the jambiya, al-Rhabin silenced Red forever. Fascinated by the sight of blood gushing from the slit throat of his second victim, al-Rhabin stood and watched Red quickly slip into unconsciousness, then death. The blood of the two men joined in a growing pool on the couch as they slumped together, side by side, partners in death.
The Arab wiped off his blade on Bear's pant leg and sheathed the knife.
These two had been easy.
The Bolan kill would be difficult.
Mack Bolan would die hard.
Al-Rhabin held the keys to the truck in his hand. It was time to hunt Bolan down. If possible, he would drive or lead the Executioner back here. Even though Red and Bear had been a waste of life while they were alive, in death they would be useful.
Bolan would see just what a deadly adversary he was up against.
6
Max Weiss believed that his operative name of Viper was very fitting. Perhaps more fitting now than ever before. So the Colombian colonel thought that he was set for a lightning-quick climb to the top of the cocaine mountain, and that he was going to be the king for life in Brazil, did he? One Hector Alchupa was soon to discover otherwise, Weiss thought. The Viper didn't have all the details about what Alchupa had in mind, but he had been briefed by the head man stateside and informed that the colonel was plotting some sort of overthrow in Brasilia. An eleventh-hour anschluss, uh-huh. Weiss knew that his intel from the head man was solid. It had better be accurate, he thought, because the head man stateside was part of Anaconda. Any bullshit, and Weiss wouldn't hesitate to ice Alchupa and then go back to the States with both guns loaded and blazing death.
As he looked around the colonel's camp at the AK-47-toting Anaconda soldiers guarding the cocaine stashes or playing cards in the hodgepodge arrangement of bamboo huts with thatched roofs beneath the jungle canopy, Weiss was already counting down the hours to Alchupa's demise. The best-kept secret only stayed secret when it remained in a man's heart. That was why he hadn't divulged even the first detail about his counterstrike against Alchupa to his own assault squad waiting for him in the wings back in New Mexico. His twenty-five-man assault force knew only that it was to wait for him to arrive on the sunbaked plain of northeastern New Mexico. The death squad was ready for his order to move out and sweep in on Alchupa and his proposed Brazilian kingdom.
A kingdom, Weiss scoffed to himself as he fired up a cigarette. What a crock of shit. Had the colonel slept through the past forty years? After World War II South America could have become one of the richest and most powerful continents in the world, but corruption, ignorance and sheer laziness had squashed that dream all to hell. It was strange, Weiss mused, that in all of history no country on the equator had ever amounted to anything. And the people living on the equator were always blacks and Hispanics. Such people, he thought, just weren't worth a shit; they were, in fact, a major part of the problem in the United States, too. Hell, the Orientals were the only ones who would put in an honest day's work anymore and take pride in what they were doing. Even the white man in America had long since lost his will and spirit to fight. Now everybody was looking for an easy dollar and an easy life. It made him sick with disgust. But maybe he could do something about it; maybe Brazil could be a major stepping-stone for him in accomplishing his own plans. After he'd built up his strength down here, looted Alchupa's cocaine and robbed the spic bastard of his money, he could probably raise his own army of assassins and saboteurs. No, things were all wrong in America, the land of the free and home of the brave, and all that shit, and he was intent on cleaning up the garbage and making things right again. Eventually there would be no secret about that.
It was no secret to Weiss how Alchupa had tracked down and hired "the Viper." The Viper's exploits were well-known in Central and South America. Weiss couldn't begin to recall the number of Sandinistas or other Central American Marxist riffraff he'd killed while on loan to the CIA. He couldn't even take a mental body count of the lesser numbers of crooked politicos and military police officers he'd been hired by the opposition to erase. Faces and names were unimportant. It was the kill that mattered. It was the kill that gave him the only real pleasure in life left to him. If that sounded sick, well, fuck it. He didn't want or expect anybody to understand him. Max Weiss knew his hour of greatness was fast approaching. He was scheduled to go out after Bolan third, behind the Swede, but he would just have to change Alchupa's mind about that. Because he was headed out of the
Amazon and back to the States on the next jet that took off from the jungle airstrip.
Tired of hanging around and waiting for Alchupa to call the next shot, Weiss decided to pay the colonel a visit in his hut. Two bearded soldiers flanking the doorway to the colonel's hut tensed and started to turn their AK-47s on the Viper as he strode up the balsawood steps.
"Relax," Weiss growled at the sentries. "I want to talk to the colonel."
"It's all right," the colonel called from inside the hut. "Let him through."
Drawing on his cigarette, the Viper stepped into the hut and found the colonel and three of his men sitting at a round wooden table, poring over maps. They had been discussing something, but cold silence and hard stares greeted the Viper as he stood in the doorway. Two of Alchupa's men were dipping grimy fingers into a tray of electric dust.
Alchupa looked at the Viper. Smiling at last, he gestured at the tray of cocaine. "Would you like a taste? It's Colombian Gold. Ninety percent pure."
Weiss had never been a man to indulge himself. Besides, he'd seen more than one good man get hooked on the White Lady. He wasn't about to fall into that trap.
"No thanks. Don't touch the stuff."
"Suit yourself."
"Usually do."
Alchupa appeared offended for a second. He shrugged and exchanged a look with his men, as if to say this gringo was a fool to pass up such an opportunity to sample the best cocaine in all of South America.
"What do you want, señor? We are in the middle of a very important briefing here."
The Viper crushed his butt out on the floor with the toe of his boot. "All right, then, since you're such a busy man, I'll keep it short. I want to be on the next jet out of here."
"You are not enjoying your stay here with us?"
The colonel's men smiled and chuckled.
"It's been a real vacation, Colonel. But I'm getting edgy. It's time for me to be moving on."
"You're a busy man?"
Why is this guy playing bullshit games with me? Weiss wondered, fighting to keep his temper under control.
"You hired us to do a job, Colonel. I want to be getting on with it."
"So you shall. I had planned to send the rest of you out on the next plane anyway."
Weiss hid his surprise with a poker face. This was too easy. He had expected a curt no to his demand. Instead, the colonel was playing right into his hands. Or was he?
"I have an important visitor, a Marshal Pinadante arriving here shortly. My timetable has been jumped up. A very large shipment is set to go down the river to Belém. Money and time are now very critical. Each hour more important people are joining the ranks of Anaconda. I wish to see Bolan dead by sunset tomorrow."
Weiss didn't like the way this conversation was shaping up.
"Wait a minute. What happened to one man at a time? If this is going to be a group effort, you're talking a split in the bounty."
"No, señor. The bounty has been raised to four million. Provided, of course, that the first assassin, al-Rhabin, has failed. Within the hour his progress will be monitored by my pilots who flew him to Colorado."
"And if the Arab has succeeded?"
"Then the rest of you will be paid off handsomely, as I have intended. You will then make your decision to stay and be my personal cadre of assassins... or you may leave."
Alchupa told the Viper this with a strange smile. Weiss got the distinct impression that none of them would leave the jungle alive if they declined Alchupa's offer.
Alchupa held his arm out. "Por favor. The jet is being fueled and will be ready to take you and the others within the hour. If you will, Señor Viper."
"Yeah, sure, I'll excuse myself."
As he left the hut, Weiss heard the grumbling in Spanish behind him. Maybe Alchupa was leveling with him. If the colonel was playing it straight, well, he'd be damned sorry later. If he wasn't... then what?
Perhaps it didn't matter, Weiss told himself as he stared at the machine gun nests just beyond the edge of the jungle. Alchupa wanted to get this show on the road. Okay, fine. What did he have to worry about anyway? He was the Viper, after all. And he was hell-bent on showing the colonel a display of power and violence that would leave Anaconda broken and bloodied in the dirt of the Amazon jungle.
Raw power.
Sudden death.
The Viper was ready to strike.
* * *
Spiraldi was right. The town wasn't even worth putting on a map. Downshifting and swinging the Jimmy off the trail and into the town, Bolan found four Western-style false front buildings at the end of the trail. He parked in front of the tavern. Two old Chevy pickups, a '67 Plymouth wreck that had long since seen better days and another four-wheel-drive were already strung out before the buildings.
Shrugging into his white parka to conceal the AutoMag and Beretta, Bolan stepped out of the Jimmy. Questions were jumbled in his mind. Gut instinct warned him that he was being run around in circles. Anaconda was at the root of the evil, okay, but somebody in the DEA SOD was connected to the paramilitary Brazilian force. He hoped Brognola could come up with some answers.
Stepping onto the boardwalk, Bolan peered through the large plate glass window to the tavern. It was close to midnight, but he saw a half-dozen men sitting at the bar inside.
Inside the tavern, Bolan was conscious of cool appraisal from the men in the bar. A jukebox wailed out a country and western song.
"How you doin' there? What can I get you?"
Bolan moved down in front of the bar. The bartender was a big dark-haired guy with a beard and a lumberjack coat. It was obvious to Bolan these men didn't like strangers. In small-town America, that was the way it was. An outsider was always suspect. A stranger might just be bringing trouble.
"I want to use a phone."
The bartender nodded toward the narrow hallway past the jukebox. "Right over there, buddy."
"I'll need some change."
After getting a handful of change for his long-distance call, Bolan went to the phone, dropped in enough quarters for four minutes and dialed Brognola's home phone number. Four rings, then Hal's gravelly voice came on the line.
"Yeah."
"Striker, here."
"Striker. I've been waiting for you to call. I've been doing some digging and came up with a few morsels for you to chew on."
"Let's hear it," Bolan told Brognola, grateful for the music that kept anyone in the bar from overhearing his voice.
"It looks like Clarence was given the job as head of SOD by the administrator and deputy administrator of the DEA. Charles Martin is the new administrator. He's had the job for eighteen months. The deputy administrator is Thomas Atworth. They worked their way up the DEA ladder, both special agents who made it ail the way to GS-12. And as far as it appears, both Martin and Atworth are on the up-and-up."
"Appears?"
"Yeah. Appears."
"So the question is, why would they hire a former CIA gunrunner?"
"Good question. I don't have any answers, just a lot of speculation. Like I said, these are just morsels, nothing to really sink your teeth into yet. But it stinks. You've met Spiraldi, I take it?"
"You could say I got a chilly reception. As far as I can tell, Spiraldi's clean. It's the guns he had guarding him that are dirty. I went into the safehouse ready for anything. I called out the dogs and they started biting. The dogs are mercs."
"They would be Clarence's men, then."
"How about a connection between Anaconda and Clarence?"
"It's a real possibility. As it turns out, this whole SOD program was slapped together."
"Damn near at somebody's whim, it looks like. Somebody's going after big game. And there's more to it than just a bounty on my head."
"It would appear so. What's your next move?"
"I'm going to hit the road with Spiraldi and his watchdogs. If they're being monitored, we'll be followed. I'll be heading for Santa Fe. Make arrangements for a flight to Brasilia. Four passengers.
Whatever's going on, the action is in Brazil. Anything else?"
"Yeah, and here's the scary part. It turns out Clarence may have been involved with some of the death squads down in Central America. Through my intelligence sources, he's been linked to one of those Company specialists the CIA likes to hire for wet work. This specialist is bad news. A real shadow. Nobody can even pin down a name on him. The only name he's known by is the Viper."
"So what's the connection between the Viper and Clarence?"
"Clarence was supplying arms to the Viper's death squads."
"Then Martin and Atworth had to know about that."
"Unless they're blind, stupid or both, you bet your ass they knew. Martin and Atworth have been bought and sold by somebody. That's more speculation. Another guess is that they belong to either this Viper or Alchupa. The whole damn thing gets more sordid with each incoming piece of intel I get. If this ever leaked to the press, well, Irangate would look like a bad soap opera in comparison."
"Damn." It was all Bolan could say.
Brognola picked up on the weary cynicism in Bolan's voice. "I hear you. It makes you wonder if there's anybody in this town you can trust anymore. You don't know who's on the take or setting up some deal to line their wallets. A code of honor doesn't seem to mean jackshit anymore."
A code of honor, Bolan thought. Right. Why was it the bad men always seemed to stand out over the good men? At times it sure seemed to Mack Bolan that a ring of madness was tightening itself around American society. There was too little honor left in the world because so many were just living for themselves. Or worse. Merely existing, taking up space, draining the energy and resources of good people. But if he didn't believe there were still plenty of good people who needed him, people worth fighting for... No, he wouldn't, couldn't throw in the towel and call it quits. Never. If he wasn't a man of action, then he would have plenty of time to sit around and get depressed about dishonor, corruption, selfishness and greed. But since he was a man of action, there was plenty he could do to try and remedy the cancer that was eating away at the world. That cancer was animal man.
Blood of the Lion Page 6
