Blood Run

by Don Pendleton

  A sentry stood beside the pool, his back to Bolan, his gaze directed toward the starry night. A plume of cigarette smoke fluttered overhead and was dispersed by the prevailing mountain breeze. Secure from prying eyes, the lookout didn't try to hide the automatic shotgun tucked beneath his arm.

  The guy would have to be taken care of before an entry to the house could be effected. Bolan watched the camera make its arc from left to right and back again, not quite a half circle. Stepping out just long enough to glance along the back of the house, he saw no other video equipment, nothing in the way of overt backup systems.

  He timed the camera, calculating that he'd have thirteen seconds to eliminate the guard without an audience. It would require precision timing and a fair amount of luck, but it would be his only chance.

  He left the Uzi on its sling and drew the sleek Beretta 93-R from its shoulder harness, thumbing back the hammer as he took his stance and aimed. The weapon's special silencer was Bolan's own design, maintaining point-blank accuracy up to thirty yards, or roughly twice the present range. With any luck at all…

  He started counting down the numbers as the camera made its sweep. Downrange his target shifted, turning to present a profile, edging closer to the pool as if on cue.

  Ten seconds now.

  And five.

  He stroked the trigger, riding out the recoil as the parabellum mangier drilled his target through the ear and punched him through an awkward pirouette. The gunner lost his footing, tumbled backward, splashing down before the TV camera motored back to scan the spot where he kept his fingers mentally crossed in hopes that anyone assigned to watch the monitors would miss the floating body.

  The camera kept on tracking to the left and Bolan made his move, the numbers running as he sprinted thirty feet to reach the nearest door. He had a maximum of thirty seconds left before the camera doubled back and caught him on the doorstep, but he meant to be inside by then.

  The door was locked.

  He knelt and brought the lock picks into play, a sheen of perspiration adding luster to his camo war paint. Fifteen seconds. Ten, and he was thinking that a bullet might do cleaner work, when something clicked inside the mechanism and he was through, the door pressed shut behind him.

  He moved through the darkened rooms until he reached a staircase, dim lights burning on the landing overhead. The climb was tense but uneventful, leading Bolan to a hallway where a single door stood open, spilling light across the deep shag carpet. Stepping closer, the Beretta in his hand, he risked a glance around the doorjamb.

  Television monitors were mounted in the wall directly opposite, their views of front and back devoid of life. It scarcely mattered, since the guard on duty had his full attention focused on a Penthouse centerfold, turning it this way and that, as if rotation of the magazine could add some new dimension to the photograph. At seven feet, the soldier didn't even have to aim. His bullet drilled the sentry's skull from back to front.

  He backtracked, climbed another flight of stairs to reach the master bedroom, pausing just outside the door to listen briefly. Breathless whispers told him Santana had company, but there was no time left to lose.

  He kicked the door open and stepped across the threshold, crouched, the Beretta leading. Santana lay stretched out on the bed, a nude young woman straddling his hips and working overtime while pornographic fantasies unfolded on a large-screen television set nearby. The lovers missed his entrance, lost within themselves, and Bolan punched a bullet through the VCR to capture their attention. Uttering a world-class scream, the luscious lady sprang away from Santana, her hasty exit leaving him without a secret in the world.

  The Cuban gaped at Bolan, making no attempt to cover himself with the rumpled sheets. His eyes were on the gun, and modesty meant nothing to him at the moment.

  "Hey, man, this isn't necessary. We can talk about it."

  "Wrong."

  The first round snapped the dealer's two front teeth off at the gum line, drilling through to clip his Spine. The second opened a keyhole in the Cuban's forehead as he toppled backward, leaking onto satin sheets.

  Retreating, Bolan met two gunners on the stairs who were responding to the woman's scream. He let his Uzi do the talking, with a burst that blew them both away before they had a chance to reach — their holstered weapons. Bolan stepped over their bodies and made his way outside. He took the time to stow his gear as lights began to wink on across the street, a sleeper's slow response to muffled gunfire.

  Thirty minutes to the west, in Lakewood, Bolan locked himself inside a truck stop rest room to change clothes and wash off his war paint. In the parking lot, he found a pay phone, fed it coins and counted down four rings before a man's voice answered on the other end.

  "Hello?"

  He recognized the voice, but there were still procedures to observe.

  "I need to speak with Leonard Justice."

  "What's your number?"

  Bolan read it off the dial and listened while it was repeated back for confirmation.

  "Give me five, ten tops," the other voice instructed.

  "That's affirmative."

  Six minutes later he was waiting when the pay phone rang. Leo Turrin's voice seemed clear, though in truth he hadn't left his desk. The time lag had been used to route his call through a scrambler, thus securing the line.

  "How goes it, guy?"

  The warrior let himself relax a bit. "It goes. In fact it's gone. I'm finished here."

  "Okay." There was an unaccustomed hesitancy in the other voice. "You going anywhere right now? I mean, have you got anything on-line?"

  "I'd thought about some sleep."

  "Well, you could do that on the plane, I guess."

  "I guess. What's up?"

  "We've got a situation here in Wonderland that has to be handled by someone who's discreet." Justice paused. "Actually it's a two-man job, and the security of both men has to be beyond reproach."

  Bolan remained silent.

  "Striker, is there a chance that your brother, Johnny, would be able to ride shotgun for you on this one? The departments involved are so full of leaks we can't take a chance on anyone else. This mission is priority one."

  Mack Bolan closed his eyes and waited for the first instinctive rush of anger to subside. When Leo spoke again, his voice was cautious.

  "I recall you've worked together several times."

  "Reluctantly."

  "We're on the spot with this one."

  "Why should this be any different?"

  "Right. Okay. But if you find it in your heart to make a call…"

  "I can't make any promises," Bolan said at last. "I'll ask. That's all."

  "That's plenty. Hey, I guess I ought to tell you where the meet's supposed to be."

  The Executioner memorized the name and address of a Jacksonville motel, hung up without goodbyes and waited in the darkness while he put his thoughts in order. One more call to make, a question to be asked. He was dreading it because he knew the answer in advance.

  The kid would never turn him down.

  Even if it meant his life.

  * * *

  It was an hour earlier in San Diego, and "the kid" — known to his friends as Johnny Gray — was thinking that it might be time for bed. He made the rounds, examining the doors and windows, checking the security devices that had been installed to stack the odds against surprise attack, and made his way upstairs.

  The house had been remodeled after Johnny acquired the property, a renovation process that had been completed over six months' time, with emphasis upon defensibility. Long-range communications gear has been installed, along with sweepers to detect the presence of a bug or wiretap. In the soundproof basement, weapons could be modified and tested on an indoor shooting range. Surveillance cameras and alarms secured the house against intruders, giving occupants a first-shot capability in the event of an assault.

  The job had cost a bundle, over and above the basic price of house and land, but Johnny had covered t
he expenses from a war chest held in common with his brother. What the neighbors didn't know would never hurt them, and they had no idea that Johnny Gray had once been known as Johnny Bolan.

  "Gray" was now his legal name, a consequence of family changes wrought by circumstance and brother Mack's unending war against the Mafia. Adopted by a sympathetic federal agent and his wife, the sole surviving relative of Mack Bolan, the Executioner, had been able to complete his education and enter military service without drawing any of the media — or syndicate — attention that his given name would doubtless have attracted. Decorated for his service in Grenada, Johnny had been proud to help his brother with several of his stateside missions during recent months, and he maintained the San Diego strongbase as a combination refuge, arsenal and clearing house for vital information, seeing less of his brother than he preferred, but following his struggle from a distance.

  The telephone's insistent trilling quickened Johnny's pulse. Each line produced a different tone, eliminating any vestige of confusion as he reached for the receiver. One was «open» and reserved for daily business, fitted with an answering machine to screen the nuisance calls from telemarketing. Another was for business, with the number known to half a dozen clients and the members of the storefront law firm where he spent most weekdays in a suit and tie. The third line, strictly private, routed calls through several cutouts prior to making the connections at his home, and only one man living had the number.

  His brother, Mack.

  He lifted the receiver on the second ring. "How are you?"

  "Hanging in. You clean?"

  He punched a button and the sweeper flashed its green light for the go-ahead.

  "Affirmative."

  "I had a talk with Justice."

  "Oh?"

  "He invited me to Jacksonville to talk about a job."

  "Okay."

  "A two-man job."

  The young man's pulse immediately quickened, and he swallowed hard to clear his throat before he answered.

  "What's the deal?"

  "I haven't got a clue. It's strictly face-to-face."

  "You think it's straight."

  "I trust the source," Bolan replied. "I'm just not sure I like the terms."

  "Who's riding shotgun?"

  "That's the thing. It's up to me."

  "I'll pack a bag."

  "It's not supposed to work this way."

  Johnny read his brother's concern and frowned. "If things worked out the way they were supposed to, you'd be dropping off your kids with Mom and Dad on weekends. I'd be Uncle Johnny, and we'd all sit down to dinner at Thanksgiving. Things don't work, we fix them up the best we can."

  "I told the man I'd ask. I'm hoping that you'll turn me down."

  "Why's that? You worried I can't cut it?"

  "Hell, I don't know what 'it' is."

  "So let's find out. Could be we'll both say no."

  "Could be." The warrior didn't sound convinced.

  "I'll try to make the next flight out."

  "You've got some time. They're not expecting us until tomorrow evening, sixish."

  "Right. That's Jacksonville International?"

  "The same. I'll meet you, if you leave the time and flight on tape."

  "Sounds good. I'll see you then."

  "Stay frosty, little brother."

  "Is there any other way?"

  The line went dead, and Johnny cradled the receiver. Several dozen questions came to mind, but none were answerable at the moment. He would pursue the answers with his brother when they met in Jacksonville. Meanwhile there were arrangements to be made.

  Suppressing the excitement that he felt inside, he turned back to the telephone and started punching numbers.

  2

  "You think they'll come?"

  "I'll come," Brognola answered testily. "I can't begin to speak for anybody else."

  "It's still a two-man job, you know?"

  "If Striker says he'll ask someone," another voice replied, "it means he'll ask."

  The second testy voice belonged to Leo Turrin. He seemed about to graduate from testy into full-blown anger. The third man in the room, one Felix Pratt, held up both hands to signal for a truce.

  "All right already. I just thought I'd ask."

  "You ask a lot," Brognola snapped. "The DEA's supposed to have its own safehouses, transport teams, the whole nine yards."

  "We do," Pratt replied. "Hell, we use them all the time, but this is different."

  "Right."

  "You know the score on Vos. You've seen his jacket. He's got contacts everywhere — and I mean everywhere. We could be looking at a major foul-up if we use our normal teams and routes on this one."

  "Brief translation — you don't trust your own damned men."

  Pratt glared at Turrin. "That's a crock. I'd trust them with my life."

  "But not your case?"

  "We can't afford to blow this, dig it? Vos has been a major source of coke in the United States since 1982. He's been The Source, hands down, for eighteen months. We put this bum away…"

  "And one of his lieutenants has the business back on track before you're done selecting jurors," Turrin finished for him.

  "So, you're saying that it isn't worth the effort?" Felix Pratt apparently couldn't believe his ears.

  Brognola intervened, uncomfortable in the role of referee, appearing to support a plan that he'd hated from the start. "He's saying each department has priorities. We've worked with the DEA before, as you well know. We've finished more than one job you guys fumbled on the five-yard line."

  A flush of color tinged Pratt's sallow cheeks. "So what's your point?"

  "My point is that you're not the only one concerned about this case. I've got no beef with prosecuting Vos. I think it's great. Assuming that you couldn't blow his ass away at the arrest, he needs to rot in jail. But now I've got my people on the line to cover someone else's action, and that makes me nervous. You understand nervous?"

  "I live with nervous."

  "Then we understand each other."

  "Fair enough. I'm wondering how well you understand your boy."

  Brognola caught himself about to check his watch, and scowled. "He's got an hour yet. Nobody told him that he had to be here early."

  "I'm just nervous, like you said."

  "Well, don't be," Turrin offered. "If there's one thing you can still depend on in this whole damned mess, it's Striker showing up on schedule."

  "Sure. Okay."

  Brognola spent a moment studying the reproduction prints that decorated the dingy motel walls. Their meeting place got more depressing by the moment, and he fought the urge to light up a cigar. The air was close and stale enough already.

  Leo seemed to read his mind and grinned as he addressed himself to Pratt. "You fellows always travel in this kind of luxury?"

  "We play the game by any rules that win. This place was nearly empty — hell, it's always nearly empty — and the owner's on our hook. A couple of my people caught him dealing kilo weight last year and rolled him over."

  Turrin made a sour face. "You're telling me the manager's connected? We've got people breaking cover for a face-to-face, and now, for all I know, some whipdick with connections may be sitting in his office with a Polaroid and snapping everyone who comes and goes. For Christ's sake, Pratt, did anybody in your shop consider looking up the definition of 'security'?"

  "That's funny. You're a riot, Leo. This bum's looking at a stretch of twenty-five to life if I suspect he's thinking of a sellout. He tries crossing me, and he won't have a dick to whip."

  "Well, I'm convinced," the man from Justice quipped sarcastically. "He sold me, Hal. You sold?"

  "I'm sick and tired of bickering, that's what I am." Brognola had been up and out at five o'clock that morning, and every minute of the past twelve hours was written on his face. "They've still got time. They'll be here when they can. Until Pratt tells his story and we get an answer, the complaint department's closed."

 
; Pratt shrugged and Leo grimaced, but they both fell silent, drifting off to neutral corners like a pair of weary fighters. Brognola tried the television, found a Bronson movie he'd seen a dozen times, and turned it off again before the actor started kicking ass. The big Fed had no patience for the world of make-believe annihilation at the moment. There was plenty on the street to go around.

  * * *

  Mack Bolan left his side arm and its shoulder rigging in the car when he went to meet his brother at Arrivals and Departures. He wasn't defenseless, even so — the airport scanners missed a plastic knife he carried in a Velcro ankle sheath, as well as the two-inch buckle dagger on his belt — but if it came to distance work he'd be helpless. There was little chance of being recognized in Jacksonville, Bolan reasoned, but you never knew precisely when your path would cross a friend's — or enemy's — and he'd be relieved when they were on the road again.

  He checked the video display and found that Johnny's flight from San Diego, with a forty-minute stop in Dallas, was expected to arrive on time. That gave him half an hour, and he drifted past the shops that offered alligator boots and snakeskin products, scowling at a «nature» layout that included two stuffed bear cubs and their mother. Bolan understood the hunter's urge, and he had done some hunting in his youth, on summer trips outside of Pittsfield, but the world had turned since then, and he'd seen too much of killing to consider it a sport.

  He put the shop behind him, killed some time examining the titles in a smallish bookstore. Vietnam was «in» these days, from all appearances, and while a few nonfiction volumes still bemoaned the «tragedy» of U.S. policy in Asia, most seemed more objective in their treatment of the war. In fiction, the heroic cover art bore small resemblance to the jungles he remembered from another life.

  He drifted on, obtained a candy sample from a smiling teenage girl at one shop and washed it down with soda from another. When twenty minutes had passed, Bolan picked up his pace as he headed for the numbered gate where Johnny would arrive.