Doomsday Disciples te-49

by Don Pendleton

  First, though, he would need proof. And if Carter was not responsible...

  He faced Tommy Booth, found the man watching him intently.

  "Is it possible to trace the girl?" he asked.

  Tommy shrugged.

  "We're checking out her friends locally," he said. "There aren't many."

  "Good. If she contacts anyone, I want to know about it."

  "Done."

  He considered telephoning Carter, but decided the lines should not be trusted.

  "Send a team for Mitchell Carter," he instructed. "It's important that I see him."

  The soldier raised an eyebrow.

  "He's not gonna like it."

  Minh allowed himself a thin smile.

  "Be persuasive." And he paused, thinking. "I assume you have mobilized the elders."

  Booth nodded.

  "Ready and waiting. Shall I pull 'em in?"

  Minh shook his head in a gentle negative.

  "Leave them in place. I don't want to concentrate our force until we know the enemy by name."

  Tommy rose to leave, and Minh's voice stopped him at the door.

  "The girl's disappearance is a serious mistake," he said. "It must be rectified without delay. Any leak would be... unfortunate."

  There was a sudden pallor under Tommy's sun-lamp tan.

  "I understand."

  Minh held the soldier with his eyes, letting him sweat.

  "You must redeem yourself, at any cost."

  A jerky nod, and Tommy Booth got out of there, leaving Minh alone. The Vietnamese dismissed him, concentrating on solutions to his problem.

  There was Carter. If the man was guilty, Minh would know soon enough. And if he wasn't, they would face the common enemy together.

  Whoever it turned out to be.

  Minh had not believed in God for many years, but he accepted the reality of fate. His people and their revolution were predestined for eventual success. They would prevail.

  It was a faith that taught him patience, made him strong.

  A man of confidence, he could afford to wait.

  6

  Any visitor to San Francisco who has ridden a cable car from Powell and Market streets to Fisherman's Wharf has had an unforgettable experience — and the final drop from Russian Hill, down Hyde Street to the bay, is a spectacular finale befitting the adventure.

  From atop the hill, most of the north bay is laid out in a panoramic sweep from the Golden Gate to the Embarcadero, with a view of Fort Mason, Aquatic Park, Alcatraz, and, on a clear day, across to the rugged backdrop of Marin County.

  Mack Bolan came to Russian Hill in darkness, with the fog, and there was little to be seen — only ghosts, and echoes of another time, another war.

  He had visited the neighborhood before, early in his war against the Mafia, and launched his strike from a base on Russian Hill. The mansion once occupied by San Francisco's capo mafioso was just around the corner.

  Old Roman DeMarco was the syndicate padrone in those days. Fearing age, traitors in the family, and aggression by the national commissione, DeMarco had looked to the Chinese community — and westward, across the Pacific — for a new alliance to reinforce his shaky regime. The resulting unholy communion teamed mafiosi with the Tongs and Chinese Communists, but DeMarco had reckoned without The Executioner.

  And he made all the difference in the world.

  Ghosts, yeah — and some of them were friendly spirits. Like Mary Ching, the China doll who had helped Bolan bring his California hit to a successful culmination.

  Friends and enemies, the living and the dead, Bolan felt them in the darkness, but they held no terror for him.

  He let the specters fade and concentrated on the living. Mitchell Carter lived on Russian Hill, ironically within easy walking distance of the old DeMarco spread, in a spacious house befitting a successful corporate attorney. The man who was once Mihail Karpetyan lived alone.

  Bolan left his car on the street and crossed a large lawn. Lights were on despite the hour, and he opted for a confrontation, brisk and bold.

  He had dressed the part in an expensive business suit, Beretta snug beneath his arm. With any luck, he wouldn't have to use it. Not just yet.

  The plan was basic. Bolan would have to milk information out of Carter, planting his own seeds along the way.

  Stage one of the Bolan strategy was complete. The enemy had been identified.

  Stage two — isolation — was commencing.

  Bolan hit the doorbell and held it through a five count, listening to rhythmic chimes inside the house. Another moment and footsteps were audible.

  The door swung open and Bolan had his first view of Mitchell Carter. He looked younger than he did in his photograph, but there was a sort of world-weariness around his eyes.

  The guy was looking Bolan over with empty eyes, missing nothing, and the warrior gave him time. When Carter spoke at last, his voice was flat, noncommittal.

  "Yes?"

  "Good evening, comrade."

  Something fell into place in his eyes. A screen of caution.

  "Can I help you?"

  "You can ask me in, Karpetyan."

  That registered, but he recovered quickly like a pro, his reaction barely noticeable.

  "There must be some mistake."

  "Of course."

  Bolan brushed past him. Carter frowned, but merely closed and locked the door.

  Taking the lead, Bolan moved into a living room furnished with subdued elegance. Carter followed, keeping his distance, eyes never leaving the intruder.

  Bolan made a show of checking out the room. The smile he turned on Carter was a mixture of appreciation and contempt.

  "Excellent, Karpetyan. You've captured the perfect bourgeois decadence."

  The lawyer stiffened, frown deepening, and Bolan saw he had touched a tender nerve.

  "Who are you?" Carter demanded.

  But there was something in the attitude that said he knew the answer.

  "Names aren't important," Bolan replied. "All that matters is the mission."

  This time, Carter didn't speak. He stood silent, watching Bolan, waiting.

  Bolan took his time lighting a cigarette, letting Carter's imagination work. When he spoke, his tone was conversational.

  "You've done well for yourself," he said. "What have you done for the Party?"

  Carter smelled a trap. His eyes narrowed as he answered.

  "Everything is happening on schedule."

  Bolan dropped the plastic smile and let his voice go frosty.

  "Too much is happening," he said. "You're losing it."

  The lawyer tried to be casual, but missed by a mile.

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "That's the trouble," Bolan told him. "You've been out of touch."

  "You think so?"

  Carter didn't try to veil the sarcasm in his voice.

  "I hope so," Bolan said. "Otherwise..." And he left the bait dangling there.

  Carter snapped it up.

  "Otherwise what!"

  Bolan jerked the line, securing his hook.

  "Well... careless is one thing. Disloyal is something else."

  Carter's jaw dropped, the color drained out of his face. It took a moment for his voice to surface.

  "Am I accused of something?"

  Bolan shrugged.

  ''That depends on you."

  "I see."

  But he plainly didn't, which was fine with Bolan. He let the guy sweat as he crossed to a bar in the corner of the room and poured himself a drink. Carter moved toward a chair, thought better of it, and remained standing in the middle of the room.

  "The problem... is it Minh?"

  Bolan kept the answer vague, his voice impassive.

  "Be careful of adventurism, comrade," he said. "Asians are... notoriously unreliable."

  Carter's frown deepened.

  "I believe Minh's committed to the project," he said.

  "Granted. But on whose beh
alf?" The Executioner continued patiently, "Goals change. A survivor learns to read the signs."

  He pinned Carter with his eyes and watched him squirm.

  "Are you a survivor, Mihailovich?"

  The lawyer found his backbone and met Bolan's eyes, unflinching.

  "I'm listening," he said.

  Bolan gave the fish some line.

  "You've got friends," he said. "They don't want to see you damaged."

  Carter gave a jerky nod.

  "I appreciate that."

  Bolan smiled without warmth.

  "They feel you need a helping hand."

  Carter saw what was coming now, and he stiffened.

  "I organized this project," he said. "Who knows more about it?"

  Bolan raised an eyebrow, kept his voice distant.

  "The Party knows."

  Carter sounded peeved.

  "I should have been consulted."

  "You've been told," Bolan snapped at him. "If you have some objection..."

  That did it, and the guy's response was hasty.

  "No, uh, no." Carter shook his head. "You have to understand..."

  Bolan cut him off.

  "There isn't any time to waste," he said. "Frankly, I'm surprised to find you here."

  The counselor looked confused.

  "Where should I be?" he asked.

  "Watching your back, Karpetyan."

  "The name's Carter."

  Bolan spread his hands.

  "Will it matter on a headstone?"

  "Now, listen..."

  "You're marked," Bolan told him.

  "What?"

  Carter couldn't seem to grasp his meaning.

  "Someone's decided they can do without you. Permanently."

  The lawyer's face was working toward a compromise of shock and disbelief.

  "Minh?" he asked.

  "You're an obstacle," Bolan said. "He doesn't have time to go around you."

  Carter's slow response was interrupted by a flash of headlights across the front windows. Bolan was already moving when he heard the car outside.

  "Expecting company?" he asked.

  "Nobody."

  Carter joined him at the window. A black crew wagon was idling in the driveway, disgorging hard-eyed occupants. Bolan tracked two of them toward the porch, and one was circling around the back.

  "Friends of yours?"

  Carter shook his head.

  "They belong to Minh."

  Bolan read the counselor's expression, and he gave the Universe a silent vote of thanks. This time, the odds were running his way, the cards of coincidence giving him an unexpected edge.

  But not the victory — not yet.

  That was up to Bolan.

  He would have to play those cards the way they fell, and any false move, any mistake, could make it a dead man's hand.

  7

  The doorbell rang and Carter jumped as if he'd brushed a live electric wire.

  "Time for choices," Bolan said. "You're all out of numbers."

  Carter swallowed hard, eyes darting nervously from Bolan to the front door and back.

  "Minh wouldn't do this," he blurted.

  Bolan shrugged.

  "Your decision," he said. "Go along for the ride. What have you got to lose?"

  The lawyer's face showed he was already counting the losses.

  "All right, dammit!" he snapped. "What should I do?"

  "I'd answer the door," Bolan said.

  Carter didn't seem to trust his ears any more.

  "What? But you said..."

  "Get them inside," Bolan told him. "And then stay out of the way."

  The Beretta Belle was in his fist now, and Carter's eyes were bulging at the sight of it. Outside, anxious fingers punched the doorbell again, jarring the counselor out of his momentary shock.

  "They're waiting," Bolan said.

  Carter moved, crossing the room with jerky strides, disappearing into the foyer. Bolan shifted to a better vantage point and listened as the door was opened.

  Muttered voices in the entry hall — Carter's tight, nervous, the others low-keyed, insistent. Bolan wondered if the guy could pull it off.

  The voices were returning, Carter in the lead. He was bitching, demanding answers and getting nowhere. The hardmen were saying next to nothing.

  Carter reached the living room, missing Bolan on his first hasty look around. The nonstop carping missed a beat, but he recovered quickly and spotted Bolan standing off to one side of the doorway, his weapon up and ready.

  Behind the counselor, two men filled the doorway. Bolan sized up the opposition as they entered.

  They were bookends, carbon copies of a thousand other savages the Executioner had known. Different faces, sure, but you couldn't hide the pedigree. They carried all the signs: a stench of death and suffering nothing could ever wash away.

  "I wish you'd tell me what this... this..."

  Carter couldn't tear his eyes away from Bolan. The hardmen were following his lead, turning to check it out.

  What they saw was not a welcome.

  It was death.

  All things considered, they reacted professionally, peeling off in opposite directions, giving Bolan two targets. Each was groping after hidden hardware, competing in the most important contest of their lives.

  Neither had a chance.

  Bolan took the nearest gunner first, his Beretta chugging out a pencil line of flame. The 9mm parabellum sizzled in on target, punching through a tanned cheek under the right eye, expanding and reaming on, exiting with a spray of murky crimson. The impact spun him like a top and dumped him facedown on the carpet.

  His partner had an autoloader out and tracking Bolan when Belle coughed a second time. The gunner lurched backward as a parabellum mangier pierced his throat, releasing a bloody torrent from his ruptured jugular. For an instant he was frozen, gagging on his own vital juices; his lips worked silently, emitting scarlet bubbles.

  Bolan again stroked the trigger and again silent death closed the gap between them, exploding in the gunner's face. A keyhole opened in his forehead and the lock was turned, explosively releasing all the contents of that dark Pandora's box. Bits and pieces of the guy were outward bound before his body got the message, rebounding off the sofa on its way to touchdown.

  Mitchell Carter was going through some changes of his own as he surveyed the carnage. His living room had suddenly become a dying room, and his white shag carpeting would never be the same.

  "Jesus. Sweet Jesus."

  Yeah.

  The years of grim indoctrination couldn't dam a plea to a long-forgotten God. Not with bloody fragments of reality clinging to his walls and furniture.

  "Two down," Bolan said. "What's in back?"

  Carter tried to answer and finally got it on the second try.

  "Swimming pool, sauna and a guest cottage."

  All kinds of cover for the back-door gunner.

  "I'm going for the sweep," Bolan said. "Be ready when I get back."

  "Ready?"

  The lawyer was trying not to understand. Bolan spelled it out for him.

  "We're getting out of here. Your lease just expired."

  Bolan moved toward the rear of the house and killed lights along the way. He didn't plan to make it easy with a silhouette for the tail gunner.

  He paused at the door, letting' his eyes grow accustomed to the dark. His mind was ticking off the numbers, calculating odds and probable trajectories.

  Bolan merged with the night, a hunter in his element. The low voice stopped him halfway across the patio.

  "Far enough, counselor."

  Bolan turned toward the sound, eyes probing at the mist. He picked out a moving man-shape near the pool.

  The guy was right. It was plenty far enough.

  The Belle found its target in a single fluid motion. Bolan squeezed off a silent round, adjusting for the fog's natural distortion.

  Downrange, the plug man was stumbling through an awkward pirouette, al
l flailing arms and legs. He lost it on the second spin, and his jerky dance step became a headlong dive to nowhere. Bolan heard the splash as he disappeared from sight.

  He was thrashing in the pool's shallows, life leaking out of him, when Bolan got there. Hard eyes glared back at him, unflinching. Bolan closed them with another parabellum, and the guy stopped thrashing. A murky slick was spreading on the surface of the water.

  The warrior retraced his steps across the patio, circling the house. Going for he sweep with one touch-point remaining.

  He wasn't leaving any witnesses this time.

  Bolan approached the driver from his blind side, moving silently, sheltered by the fog. He passed along a juniper hedge, deliberately overshooting, doubling back to take the Caddy in the rear.

  The wheelman was restless. Bolan watched him drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, bobbing his head in time to music on the radio. He stopped to light a cigarette, and Bolan used the distraction as a chance to close the gap.

  From six feet away he watched the driver and listened to his music in the darkness. The guy was preoccupied, watching the house, but something — a soldier's sixth sense — alerted him to danger.

  Bolan scuffed a sole across the pavement, barely audible, but loud enough. The driver twisted in his seat, eyes going wide as they found Bolan and focused on the autoloader rising in his fist.

  "Aw, shit."

  The guy was clawing at a shoulder holster, lunging sideways in an effort to escape the line of fire. Bolan helped him on his way with a parabellum in the ear. He ended in a twitching sprawl across the broad front seat.

  Grim Death pumped another round through the open window, and the twitching stopped. On the radio, one record ended and a new screamer began as the severed spirit winged into the Universe.

  Bolan leaned through the window, found the ignition switch and turned it off. For an instant there was silence, then a muffled droning sound intruded the night. He straightened up, turning toward the noise, every combat sense alert and tingling.

  The garage door was opening. An engine rumbled into life inside the garage, the sound reverberating like distant thunder.

  Carter didn't wait for the door to open on its own. A Lincoln sprang forward, caught the door at half-mast and crashed through, crumpling aluminum and losing paint along the way.