Blood of the Lion

by Don Pendleton

  The Mongol had slung around his shoulder a small reflex composite bow made from layers of horn and sinew. The bow, Liao Khan had told them all earlier, was a weapon from his ancestors, handed down from generation to generation, dating all the way back to the Golden Horde that had so devastated Russia and ancient Persia. The layer closest to the archer was made of horn, and the outer layer was made of sinew. Such a bow, Liao Kahn had explained, gave the string more tautness than that of the medieval English longbow, which was made of wood. Thus the arrow shot faster and with more power. To further kill time, God fried had asked Khan about the stone ring on his right thumb. Khan told the Brit that the Mongols had developed an archery technique known as the Mongolian thumblock. The thumb with the stone ring drew back the string, then released it more suddenly than fingers could.

  Khan's quiver was stuffed with several types of arrows. Godfried had questioned the Mongol further about his choice of killing weapon, and Khan had answered in a tone of quiet pride. His quiver held long-range, short-range and incendiary-tipped arrows. There were three-foot armor-piercing arrows, too, with tips that had been hardened by plunging them into saltwater when they were red-hot. And there were whistling arrows for signaling and identifying the target. Weiss had been impressed by Khan and his weapons. The Mongol strain, it seemed, hadn't been polluted by outsiders over the centuries. Of course, the Viper knew, Mongol blood did run thick in Russia and began to thin out in Eastern Europe because of the Mongol rape and plunder of Russia during the thirteenth century. For all his hatred of miscegenation, Weiss did have to admit to himself begrudgingly that some of the most beautiful women he had ever seen were those — half Asian, half Caucasian — from the Russian steppe, particularly from the Ukraine.

  Godfried's choice of weapons included a holstered Smith & Wesson Model 19 .357 Combat Magnum with a fixed front sight and micrometer rear sight, a Fairbairn-Sykes commando dagger and a Heckler & Koch G-11 caseless assault rifle. The G-11 could fire an incredible two thousand rounds per minute. So fast was the cyclic rate of fire that the third round of a 3-round burst left the gun before the recoil even began.

  Weiss preferred a variety of weapons, too. Depending on the circumstances of a hunt, he would use either a garrote or a Ka-bar for an in-close kill. In a firefight he would go with the Israeli Uzi submachine gun, one of the best guns in the world. As a side arm he liked the M-1911 Colt .45 G-Model. John M. Browning had developed one of the sturdiest, most reliable pistols, the ultimate man-stopper of this century.

  Time to go. The door to the cockpit was closed. In his greed, Alchupa had thought he could buy off their services with his million-dollar bounty and have one of the hired assassins fulfill the contract. Alchupa was an ass, the Viper thought. The colonel hadn't even bothered to send along any of his soldiers to make sure the assassins followed through with their commitment, or at least to stand guard during the flight.

  Cocking the bolt on his Uzi, Weiss got everybody's undivided attention. He stood and trained the Uzi on the assassins.

  "What is this, mate?" Godfried asked, gaze narrowing in surprise.

  "You're working for me now, or you'll die right here."

  Rolaff's mouth was a thin slit, his eyes ice-cold. "Working for you? I do not understand."

  "Well, understand this," Weiss growled, then ordered them to strip off their weapons. Holding them at gunpoint, he collected the arms and piled them near the cockpit door.

  "If you want to make sure each one of you gets a million dollars or more, you'll listen up and do exactly as I tell you." Sweat beaded on the Viper's forehead. "I've got a team waiting for me in New Mexico. In just a second here I m changing our flight plan. We pick up my team, go bag Bolan and use the Executioner as bait to bring Alchupa to his knees."

  "Why?" the Mongol asked. "Why are you doing this?"

  "Money. And because Alchupa's gotten a little too big for his britches. This show's being run by my man in Washington, D.C., somebody you people don't need to know shit about. Just note that I'm giving the orders. Hell, who knows, before this is over, my man in D.C. may be shelling out more than just a cool million to each of us. He wants to see Alchupa fall — hard."

  Godfried didn't like it. "Just like that, you expect us to go along with this scheme of yours?"

  "Yeah, just like that."

  Weiss rapped on the cockpit doorway with the muzzle of his Uzi. When the door opened a second later, he stuck the muzzle under the copilot's chin. Shock cut the copilot's swarthy features as the Viper forced his head up and back.

  "Wh-what?..."

  "Never mind what, amigo." Weiss looked past the pilot, through the cockpit glass. The nose of the jet was surging into billowy white clouds. "Where are we?" the Viper demanded, unable to see beneath the cloud cover.

  "We are over the Gulf of Mexico," the pilot answered.

  "Keep that radar jamming on, amigo. I'm giving you a new course."

  "I do not understand," the pilot protested. "The colonel is paying you well. I..."

  "Shut your face, if your colonel had checked me out a little better, he'd have found out that spics are at the top of my shitlist, which is one of the reasons why I've killed so many of them over the years. If you don't do as I tell you, I'll kill you where you sit and fly this crate myself. Comprende?"

  Defiant hatred stared back at the Viper.

  "I'll take that as a si."

  Out of the corner of his eye, Weiss saw Godfried stand. He swung the Uzi toward the Brit, and the copilot took a chance and made a grandstand play, lunging at the Viper.

  Weiss had expected, indeed hoped one of the Spanish fly-boys would try something.

  He slammed the Uzi across the copilot's face. Jamming the Uzi's muzzle into the pilot's ear, he snarled, "Try me, grease monkey. Go on!"

  Quickly Weiss turned his attention back to the assassins.

  "You say somethin', limey?"

  "I was going to say, all right, I'll go along with you on this."

  "Too easy. I don't like guys who agree too easy. When, that happens, I get nervous."

  "Shit, man," the Brit rasped, "what do you want? Do you think we like Alchupa? As far as I'm concerned, Alchupa's shit, too."

  Weiss saw a strange smile on Rolaff's lips as the Swede gave him a thumbs-up.

  "What the fuck's that supposed to mean?"

  "It means I am with you, too. For two million, of course."

  "Of course," the Viper growled, nodding that he understood. "All right, you cooperate, I'll put you in for that two mil." He looked at Liao Khan. "How about you, Genghis?"

  Liao Khan shrugged. He gave Weiss an odd smile, also. "Why not? My village is poor. They could use the extra money."

  "Since when did the Mongols become capitalists?" the Viper asked, grinning.

  Khan became deadly serious. "Since we have decided to build up a modern army. Since we have heard the ghosts of our ancestors on the steppes crying out for the blood of the Russian and the Chinese."

  The Viper chuckled. He liked that one. "All right, my man, so the Golden Horde rides again. Well, if we nail Alchupa, take his dope and deal for ourselves, hell, maybe, just maybe, you and your Mongol brothers can saddle up again."

  But it was going too easy, the takedown having gone off without a hitch. The Viper didn't trust the vibes he was getting from the other assassins. Something was fucked up here. All right, so what? In a few hours they'd touch down in New Mexico. None of them would try anything when they saw the hardware his men were packing.

  It was going to be quite a hunt, the Viper knew. Now, if only the Arab had failed to kill Bolan. Still, even if al-Rhabin had managed to score the big one on Bolan, the Viper decided he'd be heading back to the Amazon River basin anyway. Back to the jungle for a full-scale assault.

  Hector Alchupa had gotten a little too cute, and the Spanish druglord was due to become a Spanish peasant, then a corpse, before Weiss was through with him.

  "May we have our weapons back?" Godfried asked.

 
"Sure," the Viper said. "When we get to New Mex."

  * * *

  Bolan and Spiraldi had been out on the road looking to hitch a ride south for more than six hours. It was desolate backwoods country, and only four cars had driven their way, their drivers electing not to give them a lift. In this day and age, where random, senseless violence seemed to make headlines everywhere, Bolan could understand why drivers would pass them by without even so much as a glance. Spiraldi, as if reading Bolan's mind, enlarged on the Executioner's thoughts.

  'The country's changed, Bolan. There was a time, not too long ago, when people were more than happy to give a hitchhiker a lift. When I was in school, I hitched back and forth across this country, from East Coast to West Coast, three times. Back then there was no problem getting a lift. But not anymore. It seems like every day more creeps and freaks and perverts crawl out of the woodwork to unleash their warped savagery on the rest of us.

  "My parents used to tell me that the best time to live in this country was right after World War II. Plenty of money, plenty of work. Christ, you ever look at pictures of people back then? They looked happy, clean, decent. Not like today. Now everybody seems to be out for themselves and more sex, more money, more power. Yeah, that's what the great American dream's become. Sometimes I think the great American dream is just that — a dream. Maybe even a smoke screen put up by the few so as to keep the have-nots blinded. Maybe that dream's set to become a nightmare."

  "A man's got to have dreams, Spiraldi," Bolan said. The weapons duffel bag slung around his shoulder was becoming heavier with each passing mile, and the midafternoon sun beat down on his neck. "In a way, I agree with you — times have changed. But remember, not everybody's a piece of shit. For better or worse — and a lot of times it looks like the worst because the savages always seem to grab the headlines — human nature stays the same. You can change the culture, the ideology, the political climate, whatever, but a man has to have values, a set of principles he acknowledges, believes in and will stand by. What are you trying to say, guy? That thirty years ago we wouldn't have had any problem getting a ride?"

  Spiraldi grunted. "Aw, maybe I'm just tired and frustrated, that's all. And maybe a little scared, too. We don't know when the guns will strike next — or where."

  "We'll find them, when and wherever they find us."

  "How can you be so damn cool, Bolan?"

  "Cool? Cool's for the grandstand quarterbacks. I'm running hot, Spiraldi. I just happen to channel my fear into energy and direct the energy at the source of my fear. I'm not any different in that respect than most other men."

  "It's the values, huh?"

  "Yeah. Something like that."

  Just then Bolan heard tires hiss over the asphalt. Turning, he saw a beat-up old Chevy pickup winding its way down the mountain road toward them.

  "Let me give it a shot this time," Spiraldi said, turning and holding his thumb out. "I'll even try a smile."

  The truck rumbled past Bolan and Spiraldi. Bolan saw the old-timer in the cab give them an extended look in his rearview mirror. Then the Chevy's brake lights came on.

  "Well, how 'bout that?" Spiraldi said.

  Bolan and Spiraldi jogged up to the truck. Three mangy black mongrels in the cab beside the old-timer barked at them.

  A stream of tobacco juice was launched out the truck's window, then a grizzled, white-bearded man stuck his head out and growled at Bolan and Spiraldi, "Where ya goin'?"

  "New Mexico," Bolan told the old-timer. He set his duffel bag down in the empty truck bed and climbed in.

  "Cleo! Teddy! Junior!" the old-timer rasped at the barking dogs. "Shuddup!"

  The dogs became instantly quiet.

  "They listen pretty good," Spiraldi commented, hopping into the bed.

  "Sheeeeit," the old-timer grunted, spitting out another stream of tobacco juice. "You'd listen, too, if I's your meal ticket, son."

  Spiraldi grinned at Bolan. He couldn't argue with logic like that.

  "Listen, you fellas gonna get cold out there. Lemme throw these dogs in back and you can sit up here where it's warm. Sheeeeit, you must be freezin'."

  "That's all right," Bolan declined. "We've roughed it this far."

  "Suit yourself. But it looks like you're in luck today. I just happen to be goin' to a little town down near the border. My oldest boy's son's gettin' married. I'm runnin' late now as it is, so if I get a little speed goin' here, just hold on."

  As the truck pulled away, the old-timer grinding the gears and picking up speed, Bolan, his eyelids slitted against the sting of the cold air, looked around at the snow-covered wooded slopes.

  "Well," Spiraldi said, "guess the only thing we can do is enjoy the ride."

  "Guess so."

  Then Bolan saw the jet streaking over the mountain range to the west. Spiraldi saw it, too. As the jet soared south, Bolan tried to get a better look at it.

  "That doesn't look like any F-16," Spiraldi commented.

  No, the plane definitely wasn't military, Bolan could tell. It had to be a private jet, something like a Lear.

  The airplane banked and shot toward the highway, as if it was trying to get a better look at the Chevy. Moments later it banked again, soared south and disappeared.

  Strange.

  "What do you make of that?" Spiraldi asked Bolan.

  "I'm not sure."

  "You know, that Arab assassin didn't just walk in on us from out of nowhere."

  "That's what I was just thinking."

  "You think he was dropped in?"

  "It's possible. Real possible."

  Bolan didn't like it. That jet was flying around the Colorado Rockies for a purpose. But what purpose? Was there going to be another drop? An air attack even?

  There was no doubt in Mack Bolan's mind about one thing.

  The guns were reloading.

  And they were coming back.

  9

  Weiss found his boys ready and waiting and armed to the teeth. Uzi in hand, he let the other assassins disembark from the jet, keeping the Spanish pilot and copilot locked in till he decided how to dispose of them.

  The Viper had given the assassins back their respective weapons. If they were going to turn those weapons on his men now, there'd be a full-scale bloodbath. But they weren't stupid, he thought, looking from the assassins to his men.

  Weiss's twenty-five soldiers were lounging around three four-wheel-drive Chevy trucks and three Jeep Renegades. Weiss saw the assassins look pointedly at the gathered hardmen, paying special attention to their M-16s, subguns and large-caliber revolvers. No, his fellow assassins weren't going to try anything. Fools die easy, he thought, but heroes go down hard. Rolaff, the Mongol and the Brit might be hard as nails, but they weren't fools. They had agreed to cooperate with Weiss in his plans for a coup against Alchupa. If they were going to try to usurp his power here, he'd find out soon enough. And he'd be ready to deliver a knockout punch they would never forget.

  "What do we have here?"

  "Sergeant Krumpf," the Viper said, greeting with a curt nod a tall, broad man with a nasty scar on his chin. He then addressed the others with just the word, "Men."

  Next the Viper looked at the chopper he'd requested from his man in D.C. The UH-1H was situated beyond the ring of vehicles. Sweating beneath the blazing sun of high noon, Weiss admired the black-camoued chopper for a long moment. Appropriately code-named Firebird, the UH-1H had auxiliary fuel tanks and the latest in sophisticated radar jamming and tracking devices. Best of all, the warbird housed twin M-21 7.62 mm miniguns, an XM-3 system of twenty-four 2.75-inch rockets and a 20 mm Bofors cannon.

  Weiss gave his men a hard-eyed appraisal and couldn't help admiring them. Damn, but he loved these guys. Hard-bitten wardogs who had kicked the shit out of plenty of Commies in Vietnam, then later in Central America. The best of the underworld soldiers, they still collected the ears of victims who fell prey to their guns and knives. Just like the good old Nam days.

  "Okay, this is it,
so listen up," the Viper told his men, Finally answering Krumpf's question. "These three here..." he nodded at the Swede, the Mongol and the Brit "...are the guys Alchupa hired to hunt down Bolan. They'll be working for me, and with us. I've decided to bring them in on this because when we go up against Alchupa I think we're going to need the extra firepower."

  At this point it occurred to the Viper that a demonstration of that firepower might be in order — a demonstration that would at the same time take care of the problem of disposing of Alchupa's Spanish pilots.

  He had the fly-boys hauled off the plane and kicked down the ramp. Sharp grunts ripped from their mouths as they hit the dusty soil of the Liano Estacado. There was burning hatred in their eyes as they picked themselves up off the ground and looked back at the Viper. Sweat rolled down the pilot's face. The Viper always liked to see the enemy sweat. It gave him a feeling of tremendous power. The copilot, his face swollen and lopsided, was feeling too much pain and humiliation to even turn his head and look at Weiss. Even more than seeing a man sweat in fear, Weiss enjoyed the pain and humiliation he could inflict on a hated adversary. His enemies' pain and terror were his closest allies, the Viper believed. Best of all, of course, was dealing out death. He was a soldier who knew how to deliver crushing, decisive blows.

  The pilot clenched his teeth, a look of murderous rage darkening his eyes. "Colonel Alchupa will destroy you for this treachery," he growled at the Viper. Then, in an act of courageous folly, he rushed at Weiss. One of Weiss's soldiers drilled him with a headshot that killed him instantly.

  The copilot watched impassively. He seemed dazed, hardly aware that his companion had just been slaughtered.

  Weiss took a pair of sunglasses out of his black leather bomber jacket and slipped them on. The sunlight was starting to irritate his eyes. Pain he could live with, but for some reason minor discomfort always stoked his rage. He was growing impatient; it was time to put an end to the demonstration. "You!" he barked at the copilot, raking a laughing eye over the man's battered face. "I don't think I need you anymore."