Doomsday Disciples te-49

by Don Pendleton

  His mission in America was very nearly finished. The weapon was armed, machinery set in motion. The decadent Americans would witness his handiwork for years to come. Given time, he could accomplish more, but for the moment, he was satisfied.

  Minh was reminded of an advertisement he had seen on a television commercial — something about delayed-action medicine that worked with "tiny time pills" — and he smiled at the analogy. His disciples were like that: timed explosives, waiting to detonate on cue. They, were like a bacillus, growing, multiplying in the body of his unsuspecting enemy.

  Except, someone did suspect. No, correction, someone knew, and was making every effort to disrupt his operation. So far his enemy had only scratched the surface but conditioned instinct told him the worst was still to come.

  It was time to leave — at least for a while.

  Minh had been in touch with the captain of his yacht at the marina, giving him departure instructions. The crew would stop at his warehouse to retrieve the girl and his surviving troops, then pick up his entourage at the private dock, maintained as part of his estate. From there, the yacht would take him away — north or south, it didn't matter — as long as he was clear before authorities began asking questions and making pests of themselves.

  Along the way, there would be time and opportunity to tidy up some loose ends with a burial at sea. Amy Culp would cease to be a liability to the Devotees.

  From the woman, his mind drifted to Mitchell Carter, who was cooling his heels in the outer office. Minh decided he would make it two burials at sea, removing a pair of nagging problems simultaneously.

  The Russian had definitely outlived his usefulness.

  Minh's train of thought was interrupted by the buzzing of his desk intercom. He reached out distractedly and pressed the talk button.

  "Yes?"

  The voice of Tommy Booth fired at him, hesitation mingled with excitement.

  "We've got company at the gate," he said.

  Minh frowned in irritation, waiting for further information.

  "Well, who is it?" he demanded.

  "Three guys," Tommy answered. "One claims to be Senator Culp."

  Minh raised an eyebrow, his frown deepened and he became speculative.

  "Show them in by all means," he said at last. "Have your people ready on my signal."

  "Right."

  The connection was broken. Minh rocked back in his swivel chair, eyes closed in momentary meditation, reflecting on this new and unforeseen development. He briefly wondered if the senator had come in an official capacity, but quickly dismissed the thought. An Easterner, Culp was out of his jurisdiction in California, and he had no law-enforcement powers in any case. He could agitate for an investigation of the Devotees and had probably already done so — but he would never be assigned to lead a raiding party.

  No, the unannounced predawn visit was the action of an angry parent, not a federal legislator. If this was an official visit, there would be a squad of FBI agents at the gate with warrants of arrest.

  Three men, Tommy Booth had said. Culp would certainly have a driver, and perhaps a bodyguard. They might be armed, but Minh wasn't worried. In any case, they would be outnumbered more than ten to one once inside the walls.

  Minh's frown transformed into a smile when his eyes opened again. Despite the inconvenience and surprise of Culp's arrival, it could turn out to be a blessing in disguise. If the law was closing in, a hostage of the senator's stature would be valuable. And when the need passed, there was always the sea.

  If it came down to it, the senator was Minh's ticket out, his pass to freedom. That decided, there was no time for second thoughts, no turning back.

  Minh was ready when the knocking sounded on his office door, announcing the arrival of his uninvited guests.

  "Come in."

  Senator Michael Culp was a slim, athletic-looking man in his late forties with dark hair turning iron gray around his temples. Minh had never met him, but he instantly recognized the face from television and the newspaper. Most of the film and photographs had shown a smiling politician, stern on rare occasions, but never as Minh saw him now. Culp was tense and obviously angry as he barged past Tommy Booth into the private office.

  Two men in business suits trailed him. One, young and slender, had the look of an attorney or accountant. The other was the largest of the three, clearly a bodyguard. Minh didn't overlook the bulge of a holstered gun under his suit jacket.

  Culp stopped in front of Minh's desk, the others hanging back a pace or two. The bodyguard's eyes shifted constantly from Minh to Tommy Booth and back again, never resting in their vigilance.

  Minh held out his hand and Culp deliberately ignored it, coming quickly to the point.

  "I want to see my daughter, Reverend," he said. His tone made the title of respect sound like a curse word.

  Minh smiled obligingly and dropped his hand.

  "I believe that can be arranged, Senator. If you will come with me..."

  Michael Culp shook his head, a frosty negative.

  "I'm not going anywhere," he said, "and neither are you, until I speak with Amy."

  Minh allowed himself a small sigh and spread his hands in resignation.

  "You leave me no choice," he said, tipping a nod to Tommy Booth.

  The gesture didn't go unnoticed by Culp's bodyguard. The big man was already turning, opening the single button of his jacket, slipping one hand inside to reach his weapon. Tommy Booth was faster, stepping up and slashing him across the face with an automatic pistol, slicing his cheek open to the bone.

  The big man tumbled down unconscious. The startled senator turned to find another pair of gunners in the office doorway, helping Tommy cover the intruders.

  Shock registered on the politician's face.

  "What the hell is this?" he demanded.

  Minh smiled back at him, enjoying his amazement.

  "A dilemma, I believe," he said. "And you will accompany me — right now."

  Culp was glaring daggers at him.

  "My daughter..."

  "Will be with us shortly," Minh finished for him. He gestured toward the door as his "elders" stepped aside. "After you, Senator."

  Grudgingly, Michael Culp led the way, his remaining companion in tow. Minh brought up the rear, addressing Tommy Booth on his way past, nodding toward the prostrate bodyguard.

  "Have him brought to the dock, Tommy. His condition is irrelevant."

  They crossed the outer office, gunners flanking the procession, then they heard the muffled sound of automatic fire, sounding like a string of distant firecrackers. Everyone froze, listening. A moment later the stuttering sound repeated and was followed closely by a hollow explosion. Tommy Booth rushed past them toward the door, already shouting orders to his troops.

  Minh had a sinking feeling in his stomach, a premonition of disaster that chilled him to the bone.

  16

  It was the hour before dawn, the hour when human reflexes grow sluggish as the biological clock winds down and skips a beat. Beyond the control of conscious thought, the phenomenon dates back to man's primitive ancestors, crouching at the mouths of caves, waiting for another night to end. Dawn's approach brought momentary peace to the prehistoric jungles, allowing the humans to drop their guard and sleep.

  Times changed, and so did man. The thinking animal progressed a long way. But man's primitive instincts remained, lurking behind the veil of civilized sophistication. Even well-rested warriors felt it — the drowsiness and lethargy preceding sunrise — and it was not by accident that military action was so often timed to coincide with the gray hour before daybreak.

  Mack Bolan understood the phenomenon, and used it against his enemies whenever possible. It honed a biological edge on the advantage of surprise.

  The Executioner could use any edge available this time.

  He was still rigged for night combat, decked out in blacksuit and blackface. The Ingram was replaced by a new head weapon — the deadly M-16/M-203 co
mbination. The assault rifle offered him selective fire, and the 40mm grenade launcher mounted under its barrel provided stunning double-punch capability. The bandoleer of preselected ammunition for the launcher gave Bolan the appearance of a Mexican bandit on a border raid. The military harness housed hand grenades and extra magazines for the autorifle.

  He was going in hard, ready to level Minh's palace, bring it down around his ears. This time, the game was for all the marbles.

  Gadgets Schwarz had the girl in a safe place, and a flying squad of federal marshals would be waiting at the waterfront warehouse to welcome Minh's boat when it arrived. He would leave the disposition of the crew to them.

  All that remained was for Bolan to burn out the viper's nest — crush the serpent's head, right, and make damn sure there was no life left in its slimy carcass.

  Search and destroy was the name of the game — this time, every time. He was carrying the fire, a cleansing flame to purge the cannibals.

  Scorched earth, yeah.

  But it would have to be accomplished with a great degree of caution. At any given time, there were fifty or more members of the Universal Devotees in residence at Minh's retreat. None was a soldier, as far as Bolan knew. He would treat them as civilians, unless they proved him wrong and he would leave their cars and handling to those who followed him.

  Even as civilians, though, Minh's disciples might complicate the action. Bolan was anticipating panic and confusion once the strike began, and he couldn't guarantee the safety of bystanders, innocent or otherwise.

  The Executioner had planted several shaped plastic charges at strategic points along the outer wall. Each charge was fitted with a radio-remote detonation fuse, ready to blow on Bolan's signal. It was a simple but effective backup system, useful for diversionary purposes — or to clear an avenue of retreat if the "elders" cut him off inside the walls.

  Mack Bolan was a cautious warrior, all the way. He tried to think of everything, cover all the bases before the battle. Grim experience had taught him that preparation was the frequent dividing line between living warriors and remembered heroes.

  While the choice remained, he intended to stay among the living.

  Bolan scaled the wall and perched atop it, balanced like a great hunting cat, sweeping the ground below with his Nitefinder goggles. He knew the fog would lift with daybreak, but at the moment it was even thicker than before. Night jealously clung to every moment, reluctant to relinquish its domain. The grounds were shrouded, ghostly, and it took the warrior several moments to pick out his enemies and chart their patterns.

  He watched and timed the perimeter patrols, noting the "elders" walked in pairs as before. If his first penetration had taught them anything at all, it didn't show.

  So much the better, then. If they were cocky, overconfident, it could work to his advantage. It was another edge.

  Bolan let a pair of walking sentries pass by, ticking off the numbers as they disappeared from sight. He dropped down inside the wall, landing in a crouch, holding the autorifle ready, just in case.

  There was no such thing as too much caution in the hellgrounds. A canny warrior expected the unexpected.

  Like voices in the fog, for instance.

  Two voices were coming Bolan's way. Off schedule.

  The warrior saw his choices in the space of a heartbeat. He could slip away, let them miss him in the fog — or he could take them now. Start the ball rolling here, and reduce the odds by two for openers.

  He slid the black Beretta from its armpit sheath, thumbing back the hammer. There was no time like the present.

  He waited, never moving from his combat crouch, the silent Belle locking on imaginary targets. He used the sound of voices to track his enemies. They were moving on a dead collision course with his position. Another moment...

  Twin figures materialized in the mist, moving casually, taking their time. One carried an M-l carbine; the other held a flashlight, keeping any hardware hidden under his jacket.

  Bolan didn't waste time trying to determine why the sentries were off schedule. They were here and now, and that was all that mattered.

  The rifleman presented a greater threat, and Bolan took him first, lightly stroking the Beretta's trigger. A pencil line of flame chugged from the muzzle, lancing toward the nearby murky silhouette. A hot parabellum exploded in the gunner's face, mushrooming on impact, ripping flesh and bone, finding the rotten brain.

  Bolan's target folded, legs turning to rubber as he died on his feet. He hit the ground before his partner realized what was happening, the carbine clattering beside him on the rocky soil.

  The second gunner recognized the danger and reacted to it. But the move was too little and too late. His flashlight blazed on, sweeping onto target, while his other hand reached for a holstered side arm. Bolan let him reach it, but that was all. He wasn't giving anything away.

  The first parabellum round pinned the gunner's arm against his chest, punching through, mangling vital organs. The second bored a 9mm channel through his forehead, exploding from the rear in a frothy crimson shower. The guy touched down beside his comrade, two discarded mannequins, silent and immobile.

  Bolan left them there, pausing long enough to strip the carbine of its long banana clip before he melted into darkness, moving toward the manor house. The night enveloped him, covering his tracks. He moved swiftly through the trees, a gliding shadow in the fog.

  The shadow of death, yeah.

  He went to ground fifty yards from the big house, scanning with the Nitefinders, noting the light in the office window. From his vantage point, he had a view of several bungalows behind the house. They were still darkened and under guard. If the cultists were awake back there, they gave no sign of it.

  The numbers were running now, and even with the fog it was only a matter of time before those bodies on the south perimeter were found by other sentries. Bolan was prepared to launch himself against the main house when the captured walkie-talkie crackled to life at his hip, metallic voices clamoring for his attention.

  Bolan tuned the volume, making certain the voices wouldn't carry beyond his own position as he listened in.

  "Tommy... you reading me?"

  "Right here."

  "We got some company down here at the checkpoint. Three dudes in a Lincoln. "

  "So, who are they?"

  "'One of 'em's a senator.''

  Bolan cursed softly in the darkness. The guy called Tommy hesitated, calculating the problem in a hurry. Most of a minute passed before he got back to his sentry at the gatehouse.

  "Pass 'em on, " he said. "We've got it covered."

  "Right."

  Bolan could almost hear the numbers falling now, like the tolling of a funeral bell. He didn't care to wonder for whom the bell tolled. The senator had made his choice, and from there he would have to take his chances.

  Moments ticked away before a long, black car with U.S. government plates pulled up in front of Minh's mansion. Three men unloaded from the Lincoln. One of Minh's "elders" appeared on the steps to greet them. He ushered them inside and the broad front door was firmly closed, but not before Bolan's Nitefinders picked out the senator's familiar profile.

  A group of eight or ten gunners collected in front of the house, surrounding the government Lincoln. Even from a distance he could see they were on edge, waiting for something. Bolan didn't have to wonder what their presence meant to Michael Culp and his companions.

  He was rethinking his attack, allowing for the wild card — new civilians in the line of fire — when the walkie-talkie blared out another rush of voices mixed with static. There was no mistaking the excited message.

  It was trouble, right. The two dead sentries were no longer a secret.

  At the house, the "elders" reacted to the message, weapons coming out from under topcoats. One clearly had a walkie-talkie of his own, and they were ready to respond if the enemy could be identified.

  On the radio, other harsh voices were chiming in, clamoring fo
r information. Bolan knew he had to act fast, before the enemy could organize counteraction. Before he lost the edge.

  Thinking fast, he lifted the walkie-talkie from his belt and cut in, overriding frantic voices, speaking rapidly.

  "All sentries!'' he snapped. "We've got an intruder by the bungalows. Respond at once."

  Some gunners in his line of sight cautiously drifted over for a better view around the house, moving warily. Bolan kept a finger on the radio's transmission button, holding the channel open, jamming' communications and preventing any questions from being answered.

  Simultaneously, he dropped a hand to the radio-remote detonator at his waist and keyed the silent signal before his enemies could organize their forces. It was time for a taste of hellfire, right.

  Around the perimeter, his charges exploded in rapid fire, with a built-in three-second delay between blasts, shattering masonry, tearing the night apart.

  Hellfire, yeah. No one along that perimeter was going to answer a call for help from the house. They were too busy closing ranks against nonexistent enemies. Bolan could hear them firing at the shadows, venting their panic in an aimless fusillade.

  The plastic charges were still detonating when he pivoted on one knee, angling his rifle in the general direction of the bungalows. He squeezed off a 40mm high-explosive round and saw it burst. To keep them hopping, he followed it swiftly with a smoking tear-gas shell.

  Some of the gunners from the stoop were peeling off, sprinting toward the scene of the blast. Half of them, right, leaving the others stationed outside Minh's front door. The remaining "elders" closed ranks, pulling back and forming a tight defensive ring around the steps.

  Out of options, Bolan brought the automatic rifle to his shoulder, quickly sighting down the barrel. He took a breath and held it, anticipating recoil as he squeezed the trigger and held it down.