Blood of the Lion

by Don Pendleton

  "Now what?"

  Bolan, the Ingram slung around his shoulder, stepped out of the Jimmy and glanced at the Viper. "Now you walk. The rest is up to you."

  "You mean you just want me to walk right up the driveway like they're going to greet me with open arms?" the Viper asked, looking at Bolan in disbelief. "They'll turn me into a sieve."

  "I thought you were buddies with Clarence," Bolan said, a thin smile ghosting his lips. "Well, in just a few minutes you're going to find out in just how high or low regard your buddy holds you. C'mon, get moving!"

  Sliding the silenced Beretta out of its holster, Bolan moved around to the other side of the Jimmy as the Viper stepped out onto the road. Weiss's hands were tied behind his back with rope, and when he walked up to Clarence's front gate, roped, his face looking like raw hamburger, Bolan suspected he would be given a chilly reception by the heads of the DEA SOD. There would be a lot of questions, and while Clarence was debriefing the Viper, Bolan planned to move in.

  And mop up.

  "Go on," Bolan growled at the Viper, waving him down the road with his Beretta, "get moving. Stay on the driveway. Walk right up to the gate."

  Bolan moved off the road toward the woods.

  "Hey!"

  Bolan stopped and looked back at the Viper. For the first time since he had laid eyes on him, Bolan detected a note of genuine fear in Weiss's voice.

  "Just what the hell is this anyway, Bolan? If you want to kill me, why not just kill me? Let's stop all this dancing around, huh?"

  "I'm just giving you a taste of your own poison, Viper," Bolan answered from the darkness, his voice as cold as a winter wind blowing through a cemetery.

  "How's that?"

  "Weil, now, didn't you want to use me as bait to lure in Alchupa? Wasn't that how it all started for you?"

  The Viper hesitated. "Yeah. Your point."

  "So now you're my bait. Remember — stay on the driveway. You won't see me, but I'll be watching you."

  Bolan slid deeper into the woods. The Executioner had neglected to tell the Viper that he was walking up the driveway to his own funeral.

  Indeed, Bolan didn't at all want the Viper to be given a cool reception by Clarence. He wanted the Viper to walk straight into an inferno.

  The Bolan inferno.

  * * *

  Atworth looked at Martin as Clarence was called out of the conference room by the man named Littel. Atworth didn't know how Martin felt, but he himself wanted to get the hell away from Clarence, and as soon as possible. Atworth knew he was in trouble. He suspected his life might be in danger. And if his personal safety was involved... well, by God, that was the most precious thing in life. But now he was caught in a trap he had helped to build, and the wails, he feared, were set to come crashing down on him.

  Atworth had long since lost his nerve to keep on with all the deception and power struggles he, Martin and Clarence were embroiled in. No, he thought as he fired up a cigarette and stared morosely at the wall in front of him, at the moment all he wanted to do was buy a plane ticket and lose himself in a foreign land. He wanted to run and keep on running. He had done things that, if he was found out, he would be held accountable for, and the Iran-contra scandal would pale in comparison to the DEA SOD operation in the lower Americas.

  Atworth shook his head. He wanted to kick himself square in the ass. He had heard it claimed that if crime didn't pay, there wouldn't be any criminals. Well, Atworth would like to slap silly the son of a bitch who said that. Maybe crime paid off for some criminals, but not for him. And, after all, he was a criminal. Or was he?

  As he drew the smoke deep into his lungs, Atworth bitterly wondered where it had all gone wrong. There was a time, be recalled, long ago, when be had believed in his job. As a young man working his way up through the DEA, Atworth had honestly believed he could personally stem the floodtide of narcotics pouring into the United States. What had changed that vision — no, what had destroyed that vision of himself as a crusader in the war on drugs, he wasn't exactly sure. He wanted to blame his downfall on the pressures of his job, of family life, of having to pay the mortgage on his house every month. But, over the years, as he had watched the pushers, the druglords tike Hector Alchupa, beat the system he worked to defend, escape the long arm of the law at every turn, he had gradually lost faith in that system. Worse, he had given up any ideals he had started with. Was he a quitter? he wondered. Or was there more to it than that? Maybe he had just wanted the good life, the life in the fast lane that the Hector Alchupas of the world appeared to have. Huge bank accounts. Endless parties. Mansions and beach condos and gleaming white yachts sailing around the Caribbean. Not a worry in the world. Except, perhaps, having to look over your shoulder in a constant state of paranoia unless you could buy off the so-called good guys. But, shit, just who were the good guys anymore? He looked around at what was going on in this country and he wondered if there was a sane or a moral person left. Sex scandals screaming across the headlines of major newspapers. Greed and corruption and graft at every level of law enforcement and government. Okay, so he had lost faith. If you can't beat them...

  That was just crap. Joining the enemy was the easy way out. To stand up for something you believed in took guts. And only the strong, the durable, the passionate believers in values and ideals had guts. But how does a man keep his guts? Atworth wondered. Certainly he had lost his somewhere along the way. He knew he looked like a pencil pusher to Clarence. Hell, he even knew he sounded like a frightened child to that shadow man they had hired to bring Alchupa into the SOD web so they could hack off a huge chunk of the Colombian colonel's cocaine action for themselves. He hated the way he sounded to Clarence. Worried. Demanding. Impatient. Hell, a man was supposed to be in control of himself and others around him, wasn't he? But once a man felt his backbone starting to crack...

  "What's eating at you?"

  It took a second for Martin's voice to penetrate into Atworth's gloomy thoughts.

  "We've got to get out of here," Atworth told Martin. "That's what's eating at me."

  "How? Just walk out? We don't even have a pistol."

  "Yeah," Atworth said, looking toward the open door of the conference room, "we'll just walk out."

  "They'll kill us."

  For some reason just hearing Martin say that Clarence and his goons would indeed kill them both if they attempted to leave the grounds made Atworth long for the gutsy crusader that he had seen himself as so many years ago.

  "Then they'll have to kill us. You know, Martin, we let our greed get the better of us, and if I really think hard about it it makes me sick. We're men with power, with position in the Administration. We really had a chance to do something. But we lost our faith. We lost our guts. It's time we got it back. I'm leaving, and I'll knock the first son of a bitch on his ass that tries to stop me."

  "Don't be crazy, Atworth. We're in this too deep. So is Clarence. He's got to see this thing through to the end, no matter what, and he needs us."

  Atworth shook his head. Martin was actually starting to believe his own bullshit.

  "Look, Atworth, even if this deal sours there will be other opportunities."

  'Opportunities for what? To buy off more of our own people? To turn the good guys into the bad guys? To jump into bed with the Hector Alchupas of the world so we can take a massive kickback from the scum?"

  Martin looked shocked. "For a man who not too long ago told me that it's better to be a rich dishonest man than a poor honest man, you sure are singing a different tune all of a sudden. Or maybe you're just running scared?"

  "What if I am? All right, so I am. You are, too. So don't try to lay some guilt trip on me, Martin." Atworth stabbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, stood and headed for the door. "You coming or not?"

  Atworth didn't wait for Martin's answer, but he heard the chair legs scraping behind him. He didn't think his words had necessarily persuaded Martin to join him in fleeing the grounds. No, Martin probably didn't want to be left t
here alone to face Clarence.

  As Atworth stepped into the hallway, he heard voices from the security room across the way. The voices of Littel, Clarence and another man.

  "Who the hell is that guy?" asked the man whose voice Atworth didn't recognize.

  "Whattaya mean?" Clarence replied. "That's the Viper. That's my man who was down in the Amazon."

  "It looks like his hands are tied behind his back," said the first man.

  "The Viper? Christ, Clarence, you trusted the dirtiest, most treacherous son of a bitch in the whole world to do your wet work on Alchupa?"

  "So, you know him, Littel?"

  "Damn right I do. That guy's trouble. And from the looks of things he's brought some trouble with him."

  Atworth peered down the hallway. Apparently Littel and Clarence and the other man had spotted the Viper approaching the safehouse, thanks to the infrared cameras that monitored the grounds and driveway at night. Reminded of the twenty or so gunmen roaming the grounds, Atworth wondered if it was such a wise move to try and escape now. Particularly since the Viper had returned.

  While Atworth hesitated in the hallway he discovered be had made a very foolish mistake in leaving the room. He froze when he felt the muzzle of an assault rifle pressed against his neck. Martin, just emerging from the room, almost bumped into the gunman.

  "Where were you two going?"

  Atworth felt whatever courage he had mustered in the past few moments evaporate from his soul. Still, he found enough defiance to say sharply, "To take a leak. You wanna come along?"

  "Hey!" the merc with the M-16 called down the hallway. "I think we've got a problem out here."

  Atworth looked at Martin. He read the despair in Martin's eyes.

  A second later Clarence walked out into the hallway, followed by Littel. "What's this?" Clarence asked.

  The merc who had crept up on Atworth from behind showed Clarence a lopsided grin. "They told me they were going to take a piss."

  Clarence thrust his hands on his hips. "In their graves, maybe. Take them back in the room. Lock it and stand guard by it."

  "You heard the man."

  Atworth heard, all right. It was crystal clear to him now what Clarence intended to do. Indeed, what Clarence had probably intended to do since the first inklings of disaster had cropped up.

  Atworth knew he could begin counting down the minutes to his own death.

  23

  The Viper walked toward the wrought-iron gates. The large three-story house ahead of him sat in front of a hill like a huge black block. The eerie silence that stretched down the driveway put the Viper on full combat alert, ready to dive into the woods at the first sign of danger. From his previous meeting with Clarence at the safe-house, Weiss knew the driveway was monitored by cameras, so they must know he was coming. They had to. Clarence was particularly security conscious. But all the security in the world, the Viper thought, wouldn't keep Mack Bolan out. He had to honestly wonder if there was anything or anybody who was capable of stopping the Executioner. Then he cursed himself for such a defeatist thought.

  The silence sent a tremor of fear down the Viper's spine. Hell, for all he knew he could be walking straight into a bullet with his name on it. First of all, Clarence had been expecting word from him for more than a week and now he was just showing up on the doorstep of his principals like the prodigal son. Second, they were going to be good and angry with him when he broke the news to them about the fiasco in the Amazon jungle. And last, and perhaps worst of all, Clarence just might skin him alive when he found out Bolan was right there hunting for him because one of his people had become a prisoner of the Executioner's war, a lackey, a piece of chum to lure in the sharks. Well, that was tough, but it was too late to change any of the bad news. The Viper would just have to take his chances with Clarence.

  The Viper had no choice.

  He knew that the bastard, Bolan, was setting the stage for some final conflagration. Well, if Bolan thought he could wrap up this search-and-destroy with a couple of dozen neat last terminations, he was going to be in for quite a surprise. The Viper wasn't sure just whom Clarence had called in, but he knew they must be some bad sons of bitches, or Clarence wouldn't even have bothered with them.

  His heart pounding in his ears, Weiss looked searchingly toward the dark woods. Where was Bolan? What was he going to do? The hair on the back of the Viper's neck stiffened as he thought about how the Executioner had torn through Anaconda like a typhoon through a flimsy bamboo hut down in Brazil. All right, he couldn't help but feel some respect for Bolan. The guy was good. He was a class act. It was too bad they were on opposing teams. Bolan was one in a million, hell, one in ten million. But the Viper considered himself one in ten million, too. And if anybody could deal with Bolan it was he.

  The Viper winced as the memory of pain knifed across his face, scissored a fiery wave through his jaw and mouth. Bolan had kicked his ass good, and he couldn't deny that. But the Viper had always believed that a real man knew how to take an ass-whipping as well as give one. A tough guy was only ever really measured by just how many lumps he could take and how he handled the pain or overcame adversity. The Viper was banking on the chance that he would get another shot at Bolan. And, if — no, he corrected himself — when he came face-to-face with Bolan again, the Executioner would find out what pain was really all about.

  Suddenly light blazed over the Viper, dazzling him. Squinting, keeping his eyes turned away from the harsh glare from the searchlights that had pinned him right in the middle of the road, the Viper spotted the shadows moving toward the gate. Shadows with weapons.

  "Clarence!"

  "Weiss! What the hell is going on? Get your ass in here."

  "We have a problem."

  "We?"

  "All right, you have a problem."

  "No. You have a problem. Get your ass in here."

  The wrought-iron gates creaked open. Moments later the Viper found himself staring at Clarence. Ten soldiers toting M-16s surrounded Clarence, and more soldiers with assault rifles stood on the steps and lined the front porch of the house. Nobody, the Viper thought, looked particularly happy to see him. Then he rested his gaze on the man he had thought was long since dead.

  "Littel?"

  "You got that right, you bastard! Hell, Clarence, is this what you hired?"

  "Listen, Littel, you got a bone to pick with him, save it for later."

  "Bone to pick!" Littel growled. "This son of a bitch left me and my men in a stinking Nicaraguan jungle while he broke out and took thirty thousand dollars cold cash from our Company sponsor."

  Clarence directed an angry stare at Littel. "Did you hear what I just said? Save it." Looking back at the Viper, he said, "I asked you what the hell is going on here."

  "Cut these damn ropes off!" the Viper rasped.

  "I'll cut 'em off," Littel volunteered.

  The Viper froze, eyes riveted on Littel. The past had suddenly boiled up out of nowhere. Sure, he had left Littel and his hitters to fend for themselves in Nicaragua against the Sandanistas. The CIA had been paying them by the week to chalk up a body count of the Communist guerrillas down there. The money was good, Weiss recalled, but it wasn't that good. Certainly not good enough to get killed over. Besides, he had never liked Littel much anyway. The guy was one of those know-it-all smart mouths who thought he was the meanest son of a bitch to ever walk through the valley of death.

  Unsheathing his commando dagger, Littel walked behind the Viper. With one smooth upward stroke, he cut the ropes off the Viper's hands.

  Turning sideways, a twisted grin on his lips, the Viper told Littel, "Thanks."

  "Don't mention it," Littel said, then knocked the Viper to the ground with a roundhouse to the side of his head.

  Weiss started to bolt to his feet to tear into Littel.

  "That's enough, goddamn it!" To make sure both the Viper and Littel got the message, Clarence triggered off a round from his .357 Magnum. The slug drilled into the ground between t
he Viper and Littel. Both men became instant statues.

  There was a stretched second of silence, then Littel told the Viper, "We'll talk about this later."

  "You bet," the Viper said with a macabre grin.

  "Weiss, what the fuck is going on?"

  "He's here," the Viper answered.

  "Who?"

  "Bolan. He wants Atworth and Martin. And he wants to wipe out the rest of us. That's what he did down in the Amazon. All of Alchupa's people and a crud by the name of Marshal Pinadante."

  Littel didn't believe the Viper. "One man? Come on. You got a way of bullshitting people, Weiss."

  "Yeah, you heard me, pal," the Viper said. "One man. It's no bullshit. And if you don't watch your ass, you and your boys will be next."

  Clarence muttered a curse. Then there was some commotion along the front porch. Two, then three soldiers dropped in their tracks.

  Bolan was hitting them! the Viper realized.

  Clarence followed the Viper's gaze to the porch, where a fourth merc toppled.

  "Spread out! Defensive positions!"

  Littel and his people immediately scrambled for cover, racing for the house. Someone killed the lights, and Clarence screamed, "Turn those lights back on! Point them at the woods! Find the bastard!"

  As light washed over the heels of Littel and his pack, the Viper saw the grenade bounce between them. The Viper said nothing, he just smiled.

  Littel and his boys, the Viper knew, were a dead pack on the run, wolves that had just become sheep for the slaughter.

  * * *

  Before they even knew what was hitting them, Bolan had dropped the four mercs on the porch with headshots from the silenced Beretta.

  The grenade detonated dead center in the pack of goons running for the porch. Bodies cartwheeled across the grounds on the ball of fire.

  Having already done a complete circuit around the house for recon purposes, Bolan knew there were four vehicles out back — three vans and a truck. He would save at least four grenades for those vehicles in the event somebody tried to beat a hasty retreat.