"Okay, Hal. I'll call you when I get to Santa Fe."
"Right. And Striker... watch your backside on this one."
"Yeah," Bolan said, and hung up.
He stood there for a long moment, trying to form some plan of attack in his mind. The shadows were dancing, and they were coming to encircle him, to force him inside a viselike grip of death. It didn't surprise him that Anaconda wanted him dead. If there were corrupt savages in the DEA — and Bolan indeed suspected somebody was dirty there who was trying to appear clean — then it wouldn't take much effort to point the guns in his direction, particularly if some storm of corruption and violence was building on the horizon over Brazil. Because he had been brought in from the cold, Bolan's war wasn't so private anymore. Word of his crusade against terrorism and barbarism surely would have reached Anaconda long before now. Anaconda was nervous. But if they were looking to cover their rear guard by taking out the Executioner, then Mack Bolan intended to disappoint Anaconda and whoever else was involved.
Disappointment by hellfire.
Lost in his own thoughts, Bolan suddenly became aware that the jukebox had run out of quarters and was silent. A split second later he heard someone ask about a guy in a headcloth standing outside.
Bolan turned and looked toward the tavern's plate glass window. Indeed, there was a man beyond the window, staring inside. Grinning, Mohammed al-Rhabin was looking directly at Mack Bolan.
Warning bells sounded in Bolan's head. Who was the guy just outside the window, smiling the strange smile? Their gazes locked, and Bolan felt the short hairs rise on the back of his neck.
This was it. The hunters had gathered.
What happened next almost caught Bolan by complete surprise.
The AK-47 seemed to leap into al-Rhabin's hands. Bolan flung himself away from the wall as al-Rhabin cut loose with the assault rifle. Under the onslaught of the 7.62 mm leadstorm, the plate glass window blew in as if punched out by a typhoon.
7
The attack came so suddenly that Bolan had no time to draw either his Beretta or his AutoMag and return fire. As a swarm of 7.62 ram ComBloc lead chewed into the wail above the jukebox, seeking cover became his immediate objective.
Chaos descended on the tavern. Scrambling for cover themselves, the bar patrons dived over the countertop, bowling over glasses and pitchers of beer. A raining line of lead blew up the jukebox in a shower of glass and sparks. Lead-jacketed 7.62 mm hornets gouged out holes in the wall.
Slugs churning up the wall behind him, Bolan threw his two-hundred-pound frame through the air and splintered the flimsy door to the men's bathroom. Crashing to the floor inside, Bolan unleathered Big Thunder. The staccato roar of the AK-47 continued beyond the shattered strips of the door. With the stench of the grime-encrusted facilities in his nose, Bolan braced himself against the wall beside the doorway as the gunman continued spraying the hallway with hellfire.
Then, sudden silence. Glass tinkled and shattered somewhere. Men cursed from the bar, and Bolan hoped none of those guys had gone down for the count during the attack.
Crouching, he peered around the edge of the doorway, searching for the attacker.
The hunter was gone.
To go out the front door in pursuit of his hunter might prove fatal, but there was something strange about this hit. He chewed it over as he bolted down the narrow hallway and kicked out the back door with a thundering heel. Why had the guy just stood at the window for a moment, grinning that ghoulish grin? If the hunter wanted him dead, why hadn't he just opened fire as soon as he'd laid eyes on his target?
All right, the Executioner decided, perhaps the hunter wanted to play some sort of game with him to let him take the measure of the man and his skills. Then it must be the safehouse, Bolan figured as he checked behind the buildings, looking left then right before stepping out into the darkness where they would face each other again. He had to get back to the safehouse. Damn, if the hunter had killed Spiraldi and the two mercenaries already, Bolan would have to search for someone else to guide him up the Amazon River. At least Bolan now knew he was finally committed to facing the guns he had suspected all along would be coming for him.
So be it. Bolan took some grim satisfaction in realizing he'd been right about the headhunters. Anaconda wanted the Iceman iced.
Crouching, Bolan slid through the night and fanned the woods with the muzzle of his AutoMag. His skin tingled like ice, but it wasn't just the chill of the mountain air. No, he had the grim feeling he was being watched, his every move monitored by the eyes of the hunter. Move, he told himself, keep moving. A stationary target was a dead target. Then again, if the hunter was jacking him around... For some of the assassins Bolan had encountered over the years down his hellfire trail, the thrill of the hunt, the pursuit, making a target sweat in fear, was as great an adrenaline rush as the kill itself.
Bolan reached the Jimmy. Throwing open the door, he checked the inside of the vehicle quickly but thoroughly, searching for a hunter in hiding. Nothing.
As he keyed the ignition, Bolan looked through the blasted opening in the tavern. Beyond the hanging jagged shards, the patrons were poking their heads up over the countertop. They appeared unharmed. Good. But refraining from the random slaughter of innocents wasn't going to score any points for the hunter with Bolan.
Bolan had a date to dance with the assassin.
A dance to the death.
Because it was the only route he knew back to the safehouse, Bolan took the trail. He would have preferred heading back in another direction, trying to shake off the assassin — Bolan was sure he would be followed back — but he was in a hurry to make sure Spiraldi was alive and in one piece.
In the headlight beams washing over the trail, Bolan could see a set of tire tracks that didn't belong to his Jimmy. The assassin had already paid the safehouse a visit. Okay, Bolan decided, he would have to wrap up the hunt here, and then, if Spiraldi was dead, he was on his own.
But when he reached the safehouse Bolan found Spiraldi alive, and he breathed silent relief.
The special agent ran up to the 4 x 4 as Bolan slid to a halt in front of the cabin. Spiraldi was wielding one of the mercs' .44 Magnum revolvers. "He's been here! The son of a bitch coldcocked me. But I was lucky. The other two in there weren't so lucky." He jerked a nod at the cabin. "They had their throats cut. It looks like the guy is saving the best for the last. And I don't mean me by the best."
Bolan stepped out of the Jimmy, AutoMag in hand. The hunter could have damn well killed Spiraldi. Why he had let him live Bolan could only guess. Certainly there was some method to the hunter's madness. Had the two mercs been slain as some kind of warning? A testament, maybe, to the hunter's skills?
Before closing the door of the 4×4, Bolan hauled out a large black duffel bag. It held his weapons: a mini-Uzi, frag grenades, garrote, commando knife, M-16 with an M-203 grenade launcher and spare clips for his hardware.
Dawn was still five or six hours away. And Mack Bolan had no intention of waiting for the hunter to come to him.
Striding for the cabin, the Executioner intended to take the fight to the enemy.
To become the hunter.
* * *
Al-Rhabin downshifted the truck to second gear. Some thirty yards ahead he saw Bolan and Spiraldi just outside the cabin. The Syrian assassin knew he could have killed Bolan at the tavern had he chosen to do so. Now he recalled how fast the Executioner had moved, like lightning, as soon as al-Rhabin had triggered his Kalashnikov.
Bolan was good. And al-Rhabin knew he had his work cut out for him.
Now the game had to go on, al-Rhabin thought. He would lure the lion into the den. Yes, the trap had been sprung, and al-Rhabin wanted to snare the lion in his jaws of death.
The Syrian was about to hit the horn, but Bolan and Spiraldi turned and saw him coming. He didn't want them to die in this third attack. No, he wanted them to sweat some more. After this assault, though, the hunt would come down to man-to-man. It
would have to. Bolan would come after him and stalk him through the woods.
Al-Rhabin pulled the pin on the Soviet F1 grenade and snatched up his satchel and sheath. Dropping the grenade on the seat, he flung the door open and jumped. A lumbering metallic beast, the truck rolled on a true line toward the cabin.
Al-Rhabin hit the trail, his fall cushioned by the snow. Rolling, he bolted to his feet and ran into the woods. A second later he unzipped his sheath and hauled out the RPG-7 to begin the second phase of his third assault. Bolan and Spiraldi were dead meat if they didn't run for their lives.
Even as he armed the RPG-7 with an 85 mm warhead, the Syrian watched as the truck plowed into the cabin. Bolan and Spiraldi darted for cover, breaking into a sprint for the woods.
Run, fools, run, al-Rhabin thought, and triggered the RPG-7.
As the 85 mm warhead streaked away from al-Rhabin's RPG-7 the truck exploded into a ball of fire. The cabin became a fiery tomb for the dead mercs inside.
Bolan dived into the snow beside Spiraldi just as two tremendous explosions erupted behind him and the special agent. Falling on his weapons bag Bolan looked back.
The rampaging truck had punched a gaping hole in the cabin, and the explosion was the only thing that had stopped the vehicle in its tracks. Bolan figured the assassin had rigged the truck with a bomb or simply left a grenade in the cab. Another scare tactic? Perhaps, Bolan thought. A heartbeat after the crash the blast inside the cabin poked out the south wall, and twisted scraps of metal razored through the smoking hole. Instantly flames began licking through the cabin as the cast-iron stove spewed its firewood. The stench of roasting flesh reached Bolan.
Bolan could get along well enough without the safehouse. It was the Jimmy, bursting into an oily ball of flame as the RPG warhead scored a direct hit on the vehicle, that told him he was meant to be stranded there until he or his would-be killer emerged victorious. The Executioner would just have to find transportation later. First, he had a score to settle. And, just as important, he had to keep Spiraldi, his ticket up the Amazon River, alive.
Rolling onto his side, Spiraldi looked at the twin pyres of destruction. After a moment he asked, "Now what?"
Bolan didn't answer the special agent's question right away. Instead, he pinned down where the warhead had rocketed from by mentally gauging the trajectory of the missile from impact to point of origin — deep in the woods between a break in the trees. In the distance Bolan saw a shadow, outlined for a moment behind the wavering firelight, slip deeper into the woods.
A sheet of warped metal from the Jimmy plunked to the snow in front of Bolan and Spiraldi. The crackling roar of fire filled the air.
The Executioner unzipped his duffel bag. He pulled out the mini-Uzi, rammed a 32-round clip into the magazine and handed Little Lightning to Spiraldi.
"Now I go after him," Bolan told the special agent, tight-lipped and grim as he quickly buried his duffel bag beneath the snow.
"We after him," Spiraldi corrected.
"I need you alive, Spiraldi. I want you to sit tight and wait until I get back."
"No way," the special agent protested, patting the mini-Uzi. "I know how to use this thing. It's never been my style to hang back and watch and wait while the action's out there. Uh-uh. I go."
If the situation hadn't been so grim, Bolan would have smiled. Okay, he could appreciate Spiraldi's style. He would just have to make damn good and sure the special agent survived this encounter.
"I know you can take this guy by yourself, Bolan. But it's dark out there and those woods look mighty thick. Who knows? You might need me to cover your rear. If you want me as a guide up the Amazon, I would hope to God you'd have some trust in me and believe that I can handle myself."
"Trust is earned, Spiraldi."
"Then I'll earn it."
"All right. We'll do this. You take his right flank," Bolan told the special agent, nodding to a point beside the trail beyond the flaming wreckage of the 4×4, "and I'll take the left."
"A squeeze play. I like it."
"Move out," Bolan said, unleathering Big Thunder. Ignoring the look of respect on Spiraldi's face, the Executioner, a black shadow, began sliding through the woods, moving parallel to the fiery safehouse. If the DEA man proved to be a valuable ally, that was fine with Bolan. Spiraldi could be right: Bolan might need some help before this was over. So far he read Spiraldi as a straight shooter.
And, for the moment, Spiraldi was on his own. Bolan had no doubt the guy could handle himself in a firefight. He could see experience on Spiraldi's face, and the DEA man had seen the black dice roll in his own eyes before.
The crackling of flames faded swiftly as Bolan cut silently through the woods. The assassin was armed with rocket firepower, and Bolan too could have toted his M-16 with the M-203 grenade launcher. But the hunter didn't want to make it easy for any of them, so Bolan was counting on the rocket attack being just a ploy to keep him dancing around. Well, the dancing was over. Still, Bolan sensed something personal about this adversary's stalking of him, had seen it in the man's eyes back at the tavern.
This was the most dangerous game.
A manhunt.
Bolan's hunter was enjoying himself.
His eyes constantly scouring the black gloom of the forest, Bolan darted from tree to tree. He listened and watched for any sign of his hunter — a snapping twig, a rustling of cloth against a tree, the white plume of exhaled breath. But Bolan saw and heard nothing. Was the assassin hiding? Waiting? If he was, then that could prove to be the undoing of his adversary. Now that Bolan had been flushed out, the most foolish thing his opponent could do was lie in waiting.
Because Bolan would find him. The Executioner was an old pro at manhunting. Still, Bolan was certain the enemy knew this.
Looking back toward the flaming cabin, where tongues of fire leaped into the sky, Bolan saw the silhouette of Spiraldi as the special agent bolted across the trail and crouched behind a tree, mini-Uzi in his hands.
Bolan moved deeper into the woods. It was only a few minutes ago that he'd spotted the enemy retreating into the Stygian darkness. The guy would use the blackness of the night as cover, a shield for the final offensive. Bolan also knew how to use the darkness as an ally.
Breaking cover, the Executioner moved up to the next spruce tree.
Then it happened. Death came flashing at Bolan's throat in the shape of the jambiya fighting knife. The phantom killer had boiled up out of the night. Bolan saw the edge of the blade sweeping for his exposed throat and knew his only hope was to block the potential death-strike. A burst of adrenaline, and Bolan thrust his gun hand sideways. Bone met bone. Bolan's arm was jarred by the impact, a sharp pain tearing through his shoulder, but he blocked the knife and kept his throat from being ripped open. Still, the brute force of the flesh-and-bone collision, the sheer savage swiftness of the attack, sent Big Thunder spinning away from Bolan's hand.
Al-Rhabin countered Bolan's block with a snap kick to the Executioner's guts.
The wind driven from his lungs, Bolan emitted a harsh grunt. Stars danced before his eyes. Paralyzed for a split second by the kick, he let himself fall, then felt the back of his head smack against cold steel.
Big Thunder, he knew, was right behind his head. Big Thunder was his only chance. Bolan commanded his muscles to move, willed his body out of its punished numbness as he saw the Arab killer launching himself into a dive, the blade poised to plunge into Bolan's stomach.
Bolan drew back his legs, then exploded a double kick into the killer's chest with fear-and-rage-powered might.
Al-Rhabin fell off to Bolan's side. But he seemed possessed by superhuman strength in his feverish desire to kill the Executioner, for no sooner had al-Rhabin dropped to the snow, than he sprang to his feet and dived into another attempt to skewer Bolan with the jambiya.
This time Bolan turned the tide of the mortal struggle. Wrapping his fist around Big Thunder, the Executioner swept up the AutoMag, and triggered a thunderous
round. Muzzling at 1,640 feet per second, the 240-grain boattail slug drilled into al-Rhabin's abdomen at point-blank range. The bullet tunneled open a gaping hole in al-Rhabin's stomach and seemed to suspend the Syrian in midair for a split second as a gory exit wound, the size of a grapefruit, blasted out an even larger hole in the small of his back, shattering his spine like a pretzel.
Bolan read the shock and horror on the Arab's face and felt the man's breath on his lips.
A death rattle.
Deadweight dropped on Bolan.
Pushing the corpse off him, Bolan stood. He went through the dead man's pockets, but there was no ID, nothing to tell him who the man was who had come to kill him and failed.
Spiraldi, mini-Uzi by his side, walked up behind Bolan.
The Executioner holstered Big Thunder.
"Take a look at him," Bolan told Spiraldi. "You ever see him before?"
Spiraldi searched the death mask below him. He shook his head.
"All right," Bolan said, sucking in a deep breath of the cold mountain air. "It's a safe bet to assume this guy had a sponsor. They'll be checking on his progress."
"You think they'll be sending others?"
"We'll find out."
A smile danced over Spiraldi's lips. "I was afraid you were going to say that."
"Let's go. We walk until we find a ride."
8
Max Weiss decided it was time for action. They were a good six hours into the flight when the Viper checked his watch. He glanced at the other assassins in the cabin of Alchupa's private jet. Each of the others kept his own favored killing piece close to him. The Swede, Rolaff, rested a Weatherby Mark V rifle between his legs. According to his own intel on Mack Bolan, Weiss knew the Weatherby Mark V bolt-action .460 Magnum rifle was the high-powered headhunting rifle with massive stopping power favored by the Executioner for long-range kills. Coincidence, Weiss wondered briefly, or did Rolaff the so-called Headhunter believe that dropping Bolan with the .460 Magnum monster would prove a fitting end to Bolan's crusade? Weiss might just give Rolaff the chance to use the Weatherby. Weiss, after all, knew he was moments away from taking charge of this show.
Blood of the Lion Page 7
