Fire Eaters

by Don Pendleton

  "I'll tell you what," Godunov said suddenly, as if he'd wrestled with his conscience and lost. "I'm willing to make an offer, a one-time offer, to buy the formula and any of your 'broth' that is already made up. One time, one price. No negotiation. One million dollars."

  "It's worth ten times that," Fowley spit. "If we continue as we are, we can sell to China or the Arabs."

  "Certainly. If you don't get caught, which you are on the verge of being right now. Or if your new partners don't slit your throats in the night and try to steal your formula." He tugged his pajamas up under his pants. "This way you have a million dollars to lose yourselves somewhere before the government closes in on you. It is your only chance."

  Dysert and Fowley looked at each other with resignation. Dysert turned to Godunov with his big charming smile, though it had lost some of its gleam. "Two million and you have a deal."

  "One million."

  Dysert frowned, shook his head. "I discovered it. It's mine."

  "First rule of capitalism, my friend. Exploit the workers. That's you. Of course you can attempt to sell to someone else, but that would take time. And you know you don't have much time. Days at most."

  "Excuse us," Dysert said. He and Fowley moved down the corridor and whispered harshly at each other.

  Godunov looked at Petrov's cold gaze fastened on the two Americans. He already knew they would have to be killed. He was deciding how to do it.

  Dysert and Fowley returned.

  "A million and a half, Godunov," Fowley said, "or you can forget it. We'd rather lose everything than sell out cheap."

  Godunov pretended to consider this, his face frowning with grave indecision. How predictable these two were. When enough time had passed, he sighed, nodded his head. "Okay. You win. Tomorrow then…"

  "No," Dysert said. "If we're being watched that closely, let's not take any more chances. In two days my kids run an important maneuver, kind of a war game. Fowley and I have worked up a little diversion tactic that will allow us plenty of time to escape unnoticed."

  "Where shall we meet?"

  "There's a small airstrip up on the hill. A former owner of this school had it built during the Vietnam war to train kids in flying and parachuting. We'll have a plane there. You show up with the cash and we'll give you the formula and all the broth we've got left."

  "Agreed." Godunov nodded. "Where will you go?"

  "Never mind."

  "We can provide a pilot for you. Petrov here is trained in all aircraft. A little bonus. A sentimental gesture."

  "That won't be necessary," Dysert said. "I'm a licensed pilot."

  "Then it's settled." Godunov shook hands with Dysert, but ignored Fowley. "We will see ourselves out. After all, you still have that boy strapped to the table."

  Back in the limo, Godunov poured himself a glass of red wine from the car's well-stocked private bar. He swirled the liquid around in his mouth, let it drip down his throat. He could feel Petrov's eyes staring at him from the rearview mirror.

  "Yes, Mikhail?" Godunov said. "You have something to say?"

  "I only wonder why we don't simply take them tonight."

  "Kidnap them from their homes?"

  "Exactly. I could kill the ugly one. The other would talk, sooner or later. I could make him."

  "Perhaps. But why go through such a risk? They will bring to us what we want. We will kill them then."

  Petrov did not respond.

  No matter, Godunov thought. Once this little prize was back in Moscow, he would never be questioned again. But there must be no mistakes, no room for error. Mikhail was good, but his loyalties could not be trusted right now. It was time to let him know as much. Godunov reached for the phone and tapped out a number. Then he activated a scrambler unit.

  "This is Godunov. I'll need five men. Gravediggers. With shovels. Day after tomorrow." He hung up. Gravediggers were assassins. With shovels meant armed for combat assault. The GRU would send in men from all over the world if necessary. The right men.

  Petrov glared in the mirror, his eyes squinting with anger. "What are you doing? Gravediggers? I was to do the killing."

  "We can't take any chances, Mikhail."

  "There are only two of them."

  "You forget the girl, Denise Portland. And the man she was with."

  "But five gravediggers and myself. That is an army."

  Godunov sipped his wine. "We may need an army."

  18

  "Hey, man," Tony Zito yelled. "What are you doing here?" His voice echoed through the underground parking structure.

  The stooped man in the trench coat looked at his parking stub. "Looking for Red Aisle 6. White Honda Prelude."

  "Get outta here, man. This level is private parking only."

  "Where's Red Aisle?" the man asked, still studying his parking stub.

  "Who the fuck cares? Just get your ass outta here. Now."

  "Yeah, okay. Sorry." The man started to wander away.

  "Fucking Prelude," Tony muttered. Once in a while some clod got lost on this level looking for his crummy Toyota or Renault. That only happened when some health nut took the stairs instead of the elevator like normal people. It was Tony's job to stand here at the elevator and make sure nobody got off at this level except those who worked for Noah South.

  Not very demanding work for a kid who'd graduated from Beverly Hills High School, the son of a famous cinematographer. Tony's real last name was Paulson, not Zito. Zito he had picked up from some brand of Italian cheese. He thought it made him sound tougher. Plus it annoyed the hell out of his folks.

  They were still trying to talk him into attending USC. His father had offered to get him into movies, behind a camera. Forget it, man. Another couple of years with Mr. South and he'd be given some of his own territory to hustle drugs in. Then he could trade in his Datsun for a Ferrari, something really cool. He'd never be like that dork looking for some stupid Honda Prelude.

  "Hey, asshole," Tony hollered. The man was still looking among the cars, checking his stub. Tony started to panic. He'd better get this guy out of here before Mr. South arrived. He was due any minute. "You see any Hondas down here, jerk? I mean, look around." Indeed, there was nothing but Mercedes, Rolls-Royces, a couple of Jaguars. "I mean, you think we'd even let some shitty Honda around these babies?"

  "Red Aisle 6," the man said, looking confused. He pushed his glasses higher on his nose. "Everything looks the same."

  "Except your face if you don't get the hell outta here." Furious now, Tony hurried toward the man. He'd kick this fool's butt just to break up the boredom of the morning. Have something to tell Mr. South, prove his worth.

  "Maybe you can help me?" the man said hopefully.

  "Yeah, I'll help you." Tony grabbed the man by the trench coat and threw him against a cement column. When the man slammed into the column, his glasses shifted askew. Tony reached for him again. "Maybe a couple of cracked ribs will help you remember."

  Suddenly the stooped man in the trench coat was spinning away from Tony, moving so quickly it boggled the parking garage attendant's mind. Now the guy was behind him. Grabbing him. Tony's head was yanked backward. Pain shot across the base of his skull and suddenly the dim underground garage became even blacker as he lost consciousness.

  * * *

  Mack Bolan slipped his hands under the man's arms and caught the body before it hit the ground.

  Bolan shoved the body under one of the Jaguars and waved for Denise. She popped up from behind a tan Mercedes and ran to him.

  The screeching of tires resounded around them. Bolan reached inside his trench coat and pulled out the AutoMag.

  They ducked behind a white Cadillac and waited for the approaching vehicle to finish its spiraling descent and shoot into this level like a pinball.

  They were not disappointed.

  The powder-blue Lincoln limo pulled up in front of the elevator. The driver and another man in the front jumped out and opened the back doors. On one side a huge man with slicked
-back hair and a fashionable suit got out. His lips had scabs on them. Out of the other door stepped a dapper, middle-aged man with the slightest hint of a pot belly.

  Bolan recognized him as Noah South.

  Noah South looked over at the elevator, hesitated. "Where's Tony?" he asked.

  The three other men all looked at each other and shrugged.

  "Maybe on a coffee break?" the man with scabby lips suggested.

  Noah South immediately jumped back into the car. "Get me out of here! Now!"

  The three men scrambled for the car.

  The driver was sliding behind the wheel as Bolan rested the AutoMag on the hood of the Caddy and fired. The 240-grain bullet blasted across the parking structure at 1,640 feet per second. When it punched through the bulletproof windshield, the driver was still fumbling with the ignition. His hands were turning the key when the slug drilled his face and brain, splashing soggy bits of flesh all over the leather interior.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Bolan could see Denise running, dodging behind another car, then another, until she was out of sight.

  "Drake!" Noah South barked.

  The big man with the slicked hair and expensive suit ducked and pulled out a Ruger Security-Six .357 Magnum. It had a stainless steel finish with a checkered walnut grip. He squeezed off a round at Bolan that plunked into the Caddy's front tire with a pop.

  The man from the front passenger side pulled out a Smith & Wesson Model 916 Eastfield shotgun with a 5-shot tubular magazine. He blasted two quick rounds at Bolan. The impact ripped the Caddy's front fender off and sent it skidding across the cement floor.

  "Never mind that, Krieg," South shouted. "Get me the hell out of here! Drake!"

  Drake went down on one knee next to the Lincoln and waved at Krieg. "You drive. I'll keep him pinned down."

  Krieg nodded, handed Drake the shotgun and jumped into the car. He booted the dead driver out onto the ground, then slid behind the wheel. He turned the ignition and the car started up.

  Bolan lifted his head to look for a shot, but a roar from the shotgun sent him ducking for cover. The hood of the Caddy buckled from the pellets.

  "Get in," South said to Drake.

  Bolan knew he had to move now or they'd be gone within seconds. And with them gone, so was his plan to get Maria back from that teenage hit man.

  There was no more time to waste. A grenade would stop them, but he couldn't take the chance of killing Noah South. Everything depended on keeping that bastard alive.

  Crouching behind the battered Cadillac, the Executioner switched his AutoMag to his left hand, pulled out the Beretta with his right. He took two deep breaths, said, "What the hell," and moved. Quickly.

  He rolled out from behind the car just as the Lincoln was swinging around in a screaming arc. The passenger door was open and Drake was hanging out, his arm hooked through the open window for balance, his shotgun aimed at Bolan.

  Bolan fired first, a 9 mm stinger from the Beretta and a .44 steaming meteor from the AutoMag. But the Lincoln was swerving on two tires, maneuvering toward the exit ramp and both shots missed.

  The car was almost to the ramp.

  Bolan holstered the Beretta, grabbed the AutoMag with both hands and fired. The left rear tire blew up. The Lincoln fishtailed wildly and Drake was tossed out of the car. He flew into the door of a parked Mercedes and dropped to the ground in a daze. His shotgun slid out of sight.

  Krieg had wrestled control of the limo again and was rocketing the limping car toward the exit. Bolan took aim again at the right rear tire.

  Before he could fire, three rapid shots boomed and the Lincoln was suddenly spinning dizzily like a drunk on ice. Finally it crashed into two parked cars and came to a halt. Bolan could see Krieg slumped over the wheel, blood streaming down his temple.

  Standing in the exit ramp, her gun held straight out with both hands, was Denise Portland, nearly six feet tall, her long dark hair swirling around her face and shoulders from the underground draft. Bolan watched her walking slowly toward the Lincoln, her face steely with concentration. Her look was… Bolan tried to think of the right word.

  Formidable.

  Yeah. Like someone who could take care of herself. Someone who had fears and cares, but who knew how to control them, push them aside. But someone with a great capacity for compassion.

  Someone like himself.

  Bolan holstered his AutoMag. As he walked toward the limo, he couldn't help but wonder about Denise Portland. Indulge himself in a few seconds of fantasy. His walk across the underground with gun in hand was like a hundred other walks in a constant world of dark, hollow undergrounds. The smell of dead bodies all around him. The sticky feel of drying blood on his skin. This had been his life for so long he could hardly remember any other way. But did it have to be his future, too? Sure, he'd have to make this walk again and again, but would he always have to do it alone? Or was it possible to make it with someone like Denise?

  Stay hard, yeah. But that didn't mean there wasn't room for a little tenderness. Did it?

  A question for some other time, he thought. Now he had to save Maria, then go back to Ridgemont and do something about the two scum who had been using those children. The ones responsible for Colonel Danby's and Leonard Harwood's deaths. Questions about caring and Denise would have to come later. Would always come later.

  "I'll get South," Bolan told her as he approached the car. "You grab scabby lips over there."

  "Right," she said.

  Bolan bent down and peered into the back window. Noah South was sprawled across the back seat, struggling to sit up. Bolan opened the door, grabbed him by the lapels with one hand and hauled him out. He propped the mobster up against the car.

  "What do you want?" Noah South asked, his voice suddenly high-pitched. There was a small cut over his right eye.

  "I'm collecting," Bolan said.

  "Collecting? What are you talking about? Collecting what?"

  "Dues," Bolan said. "Yours are way overdue." Bolan shoved him toward the elevator. "Let's go take a look at your office. See if there is anything there worthwhile."

  "You kidding me? You trying to shake me down? My men will fill you and your slut with holes, then piss in the holes like wading pools. You understand!"

  "Don't excite yourself," Bolan said. "You could get a heart attack."

  But Noah South had run Southern California for more than twenty years, always getting what he wanted when he wanted. The insult of having Bolan manhandle him now overcame any initial fear. He hollered in Bolan's face, "You fucking piece of shit. You're dead. Your bitch is dead. You understand me, Bolan?"

  Bolan punched him sharply in the chest, right over the heart. South grunted, sagged from the impact. Bolan kept him from dropping with a hand under his arm. "Warned you about your heart, South." Bolan pressed the elevator button.

  Denise plucked the Ruger .357 from Drake's belt. She patted him down for any other weapons, but found only a switchblade in his jacket. She nudged his leg with her foot. He stirred, moaned. "Get up," she said, her nudge becoming a sharp kick.

  "Hey!" He pulled his leg away.

  "Rise and shine, pal."

  Drake looked over at his boss, at Bolan, at Denise. Bolan's Beretta was sucking skin at Noah South's neck. The woman had a popgun .32 in one hand and his own .357 in the other. It was the Magnum she was pointing at his crotch. He saw his shotgun twenty yards away. Might as well be in China. He stood up.

  They stood in front of the elevator door listening to the cab swooshing toward them from above.

  "We're going to do this nice and easy," Bolan said, buttoning his trench coat over his AutoMag. He shoved his Beretta and hand in his coat pocket, the gun still aimed at South. Denise, still clutching the .357, plunged her hand into her large purse.

  "We're not going to try anything in the damn elevator," Noah South said. He was grinning now. "It's when we get out of the elevator you've gotta worry about."

  On the ride up the elevator,
Noah South's grin widened until his plump face resembled a malevolent pumpkin. People got on and off the elevator, briefcases and purses bumping knees and hips. Everyone stared at the floor numbers as they flashed by over the door.

  When they arrived at the twenty-third floor, Bolan nudged South.

  "Whoa there, boy," South said. "Can't hurry an old man. Didn't no one ever teach you that?"

  Bolan smiled. "I think I see another heart attack coming on."

  South's hands flew to the tender spot on his chest where Bolan had punched him earlier. The smile disappeared as Bolan urged him from the elevator.

  "No fuss," Bolan said quietly, jamming the gun into Noah South's spine, "no muss."

  Typewriters clacked. Computers flashed. Printers chattered metallically. Office personnel hurried about. It was the same basic scene one would see at the corporate headquarters of IBM or Bank of America. Though the bulk of Noah South's money came from illegal activities — the soiled sheets of some smelly motel, the dirty needles in a damp Hollywood alley, the broken thumbs of a man delinquent with a loan payment — all that money had to be funneled into legitimate businesses. Billions of dollars had to be kept track of. Right here.

  And like most employees, they said "good morning" to South in bright chipper voices, but only in passing, without actually looking at him. They wanted to show they were busy, earning their keep. No time to stand idly around and chat.

  Which made it easy for Bolan and Denise to waltz Drake and South down the hall to South's office.

  But Bolan knew that despite the business-as-usual atmosphere of the place, behind some of these doors were men with shotguns and automatic weapons, sipping coffee, reading the sports pages of the Times, their weapons on their laps. They were waiting.

  Bolan closed the door behind him and shoved Noah South to the center of the room. Denise's hand popped out of her purse still holding the .357. Drake quickly moved next to his boss.

  Bolan stripped off his trench coat. His black skinsuit made him look bigger and meaner than he already was.

  "Okay," South said. "So you're a regular Superman. You got into my office." He walked to his desk, picked up a pen. "Now tell me what address you want me to mail the pieces to."