Fire Eaters

by Don Pendleton

The two bruisers tossed aside their boards and came running. The big surfer in the vest tackled Denise. Her gun flew out of her hand into the sand.

  The other surfer, who was wearing aviator sunglasses and a baseball cap, dived for Bolan. Bolan easily sidestepped him, punching him in the back of the head as he flew by. The boy flopped unconscious into the sand.

  "Neat trick," Grady said. "But now your friend with the gun is busy, let's see how good you are."

  Grady's movements were slick and controlled. He didn't allow Bolan any openings.

  So Bolan had to make one. He stepped in, jabbed twice, clipping Grady's chin the first time and his nose the second time. But Grady leaned with the punches so they didn't do much damage. He even managed to get a side kick off that caught Bolan behind the ear and sent him to the sand.

  "I'm not one of those dumb apes you're used to," Grady said.

  Bolan stood up. Twenty yards away Denise was wrestling with a surfer twice her size.

  He saw Grady eye the detonator. Bolan stepped between him and Maria. "Let's try one more dance, kid," Bolan said.

  Grady grinned. He faked a front kick, which Bolan lowered his hands to block, then executed a spinning back kick, his heel thumping mightily into Bolan's chest. The Executioner staggered backward, his calves bumping Maria's chair.

  Then Grady was airborne, ramming his head into Bolan's stomach, both of them tumbling to the ground. Bolan groped for a arm or leg to grab on to, but the kid was good. Thin and slippery, Grady avoided Bolan's grasp while managing to put Bolan's left arm in lock.

  Bolan had fought countless killers, many of them experts in various forms of fighting arts. Grady's moves were as good as the best of them. He never stopped tugging, rolling, using leverage. He was almost impossible to grab on to. Bolan would have to slow him down.

  Grady used the arm lock to roll Bolan facedown in the sand. With his free hand against the back of Bolan's head, he pushed the warrior's face harder into the sand, grinding it deeper and deeper.

  Bolan opened his mouth and allowed it to fill with sand. Then, with a powerful kick, he somersaulted forward, taking the surprised Grady with him. When they sat up on the other side, Grady still had Bolan's arm locked and was applying the kind of pressure that would soon snap the bone.

  "One bone at a time," Grady said. "Until you're crawling on the sand like a crab. That's when I'll finally kill you."

  Bolan opened his mouth and spit the sand into Grady's eyes.

  Instantly Grady's hands flew up to rub them.

  Bolan fired a punch from the shoulder, with two hundred-odd pounds of muscle and raw fury behind it, into Grady's temple.

  The young man dropped to the ground, dazed.

  Bolan looked up. Denise was driving her elbow into the surfer's chest and her knee into his crotch. He doubled up in a coughing spasm. She jumped off him, grabbed her gun and ran toward Bolan. In the distance three surfers were talking to a lifeguard and pointing in the direction of the disturbance. The lifeguard climbed into his jeep, talking into his radio as he drove toward them.

  Bolan carefully removed Maria's collar and fastened it tightly around the neck of the semiconscious Grady, then slung Maria over his shoulder and grabbed the detonator.

  With Denise beside him, Bolan ran for the parking lot. The lifeguard veered toward them.

  At the edge of the parking lot, Bolan set Maria back onto her feet. She swayed weakly, but he held her up. He handed her the detonator.

  Grady was conscious again, clawing at the collar. He struggled to his feet and tugged the metal prong out of the hole.

  Maria thumbed the button.

  Grady's head ignited in a rush of bright flames like a matchhead. His hands patted at the flames but they, too, caught fire. His legs continued to run crazily in circles as his head melted, his brains fried.

  Bolan shifted the BMW into gear and drove away.

  20

  "You were right, Striker," Brognola said.

  Bolan stood at the hall phone near the cafeteria. Students hurried by on their way from lunch to classes. Some came out of the rest rooms smelling of cigarette smoke. Bolan spoke quietly into the phone. "What'd you find out?"

  "All those anonymous tips to the police about various children at Ridgemont. Everything phoned into the cop shop is taped. I had all the tapes sent to me from all those cities and then analyzed. They're the same person."

  "So it was a setup."

  "Yup. I called a couple of parents and found out that shortly after their child's arrest they received a brochure from Ridgemont and then a follow-up phone call by either Dysert or Fowley."

  "The personal touch."

  "Right." Brognola sighed into the phone. "There's more."

  "There always is," Bolan said. "Shoot."

  "There's been some personnel movement. Gravediggers."

  "How many?"

  "Uncertain. Five have moved. Three were already in this country. One came down from Canada. One up from Mexico. They are all heading your way."

  "Hmm, the band's packing up. Looks like the party's about to come to an end."

  Brognola paused. When he spoke his voice was thick with concern. "These guys aren't your usual Mafia head-whackers, guy. They're the best. Five of them could overthrow a government if they wanted to."

  "Governments are easy. It's me they're going to have to deal with."

  Three boys came bouncing out of the cafeteria, shoving each other playfully.

  "The Lakers are a bunch of assholes, man," one of them said.

  "Yeah? Well, fuck you."

  "Fuck you, too."

  "Hey!" Bolan barked at them. "Watch your language."

  They immediately quieted down. "Sorry, sir," they said sheepishly and hurried away.

  "You're taking this teaching stuff seriously," Brognola said.

  "I like it, Hal. I like the kids. I like watching them learn, change into something different, something better." He stopped, watched a group of boys and girls laughing as they rushed to class. "In another life, in another world, who knows? Maybe this is what I would have been."

  "Mack." Brognola's voice was stiff, as if it had just had an injection of Official Duty. "I've got to ask this next part. You think there's a drug involved in the programming of these children, right?"

  "Denise and I found a needle mark on Leonard Harwood's arm. What did the autopsy show?"

  "Traces of drugs, but not enough to reconstruct anything."

  Bolan felt a tightness across his chest. He knew what was coming.

  "If possible, I want you to bring back some of that stuff, whatever it is they use. It could be of enormous help…"

  Bolan squeezed the receiver tightly. "That you talking, Hal, or official policy."

  "There's no difference."

  "Like hell! There's been an official policy about me for years, since back when you were FBI. You ignored it then, ignored it later when the whole damn world was hunting me."

  "They still are."

  "That's right. And despite that, there's always one guy I can turn to, someone whose conscience is more important than any damn policy." Bolan took a deep breath. "This stuff is poison, Hal. If it worked on adults they would have used it on adults. I figure it only works on kids. What do you think our people would do with it? Sit on it until we've worked the bugs out?"

  "Probably not," Hal said quietly.

  There was a long silence.

  "Gotta go," Bolan said.

  "Striker?" Brognola said.

  "Yeah?"

  "Do what's right."

  Bolan smiled into the receiver. "We always do, guy. That's why you and I are partners."

  21

  "Volunteers?" Bolan said.

  No one answered.

  "Come on, don't be shy. It doesn't hurt. Much."

  The group of kids stood around the boxing ring in the middle of the gym. There were twelve boys and four girls.

  Bolan stood in the middle of the ring holding up a pair of sixteen-ounce boxing g
loves. "Well?"

  "You mean get in the ring with you?" Barney Childress asked.

  Bolan walked to the edge of the ring and looked down at Barney. "How much do you weigh, Barney?"

  "Around two hundred pounds."

  "How tall are you, Barney?"

  "Six two."

  "You're on the school football team, aren't you?"

  "The Fire Eaters. Yes, sir. I'm the center. Basketball team, too. Power forward."

  "And you're telling me that a Ridgemont Fire Eater is afraid to get in the ring with an old guy like me?"

  "Yes, sir. We heard what you did to that other guy, the one in the parking lot."

  "What if I promised to close my eyes and keep them closed?"

  Barney tugged at his ear suspiciously. "You want me to box you, only you'll keep your eyes closed the whole time?"

  "That's what I said," Bolan said with a nod.

  "And you won't come after me later, like if I knock you out or bust your nose or something? You won't call my parents or have me thrown out or nothing?"

  Bolan dangled the gloves in front of Barney's face. "Trust me."

  "All right!" Barney said, grinning brightly. He grabbed the gloves and climbed into the ring.

  The rest of the kids cheered. Except Jennifer Bodine. She looked worried. She looked at Bolan with concern and said softly, "Are you sure, Mr. Cummings?"

  Bolan winked at her. She smiled nervously.

  "Okay, troops," Bolan said. "This is what you've been waiting for. Your champion, Sir Barnard Childress, will attempt to slay the nasty faculty dragon. Strike a blow for oppressed students everywhere."

  A roar of approval came from the students.

  "Get him, Barn," several encouraged.

  "Go, Barn, go."

  Bolan lifted the ropes for Barney to duck through. "They call you Barn, huh?"

  "Sometimes."

  Bolan pointed to a skinny kid with freckled arms. "You, Scott. Why don't you tie Barn's gloves for him."

  "Yes, sir," Scott said excitedly. He clambered up to the ring, quickly lacing the gloves.

  The kids cheered for Barney and he waved his gloved hands over his head as if he'd just won the championship. They cheered even louder.

  Bolan grinned. They wanted to see Barney deck him, knock him onto his butt. It had nothing to do with likes or dislikes, just kids versus authority. And who doesn't like to see authority knocked on its butt sometimes? He looked over the heads of the kids and saw Major Forsythe standing at parade rest near the doorway, observing. Denise had asked about Forsythe that morning as they sped back to Ridgemont.

  "You think he's in bed with Dysert and Fowley?" she'd asked.

  "My guess is no. He strikes me as just what he seems to be, a highly disciplined, moral person running a school."

  "Then why hasn't he clued in to what's going on?"

  "Why would he? Until Danby was killed, there'd been nothing out of the ordinary."

  "Maybe." They hadn't talked the rest of the trip.

  The major continued to watch, not moving, a shadow from the basketball backboard cutting his face in two.

  "Who wants to keep time?" Bolan asked.

  "I will," Jennifer volunteered.

  He handed her the stopwatch. "When I tell you, press it. Stop us after three minutes." He tucked the laces inside the glove and shoved his hands in after them.

  "Don't you want them tied up?" Barney asked.

  "No need." Bolan nodded to Scott. "Give him a mouthpiece."

  Scott fished out a rubber mouthpiece from the bucket on the apron of the ring.

  "Your eyes closed," Barney reminded him nervously.

  "I promise." Bolan closed his eyes tight. "Now, Jennifer."

  She pressed the stopwatch and the kids started hollering and cheering.

  Bolan stood in the center of the ring, eyes tightly closed. He could hear Barney's tentative shuffling to the left, then right.

  "Hit him!" a boy hollered.

  "You wanna dance or fight?" another boy yelled.

  "You trying to bore him to sleep?" a girl said, laughing.

  That did it. Bolan heard Barney's size-twelve feet clomping straight for him. It would take him two steps and a moment to cock his arm. Bolan counted the two steps, then opened his eyes.

  Barney was standing right in front of him, his arm cocked as far back as it could go, getting ready to unleash a haymaker. Bolan snapped out a quick jab into Barney's startled face. Barney's head flew back and the rest of his body followed. He bounced into the ropes, lost his footing and dropped to the canvas on his knees.

  "You cheated!" someone from the crowd said.

  Barney stood up, rubbing his sore chin. "You said you'd keep your eyes closed."

  "I lied," Bolan said. He turned toward the other kids and smiled. "This is a course in survival, not manners. You want to survive, to live, then you keep on your guard. Never take someone completely at their word. The more you want to believe them, the more skeptical you should be."

  "But you're a teacher," a girl said.

  "Yes, but that doesn't mean I'm not also a liar, a cheater or worse. Someone wants something from you, they're going to come at you so that you trust them first. Maybe as a member of the clergy, a mail-person, a cop, even a teacher. Don't let uniforms or titles do your thinking for you. Make up your own mind."

  Bolan spent the rest of the period demonstrating various boxing stances, putting them through drills. They laughed, asked questions, tried hard.

  "Remember," he said, "the fun in boxing isn't that you get to hit someone else, it's knowing that someone else can come at you, try to hurt you, and you can keep them off. They can't touch you."

  After class, the students ran off toward the showers. Jennifer Bodine came up and handed Bolan the stopwatch. She hesitated, as if she wanted to speak.

  "What is it, Jennifer?" he asked.

  "Nothing, I guess. It's just, well, we all heard about Lenny Harwood drowning. Well, after the thing with Greg Danby, now this, it's just weird. Creepy. I don't know." She looked away. "I guess I'm glad you're here."

  "Me too," Bolan said.

  "Yeah, well…" She ran off to the locker room.

  When the kids were all gone, Bolan walked over to the major.

  "Making friends?" Major Forsythe said.

  "A few."

  "Heard about the break-in last night? The death of Leonard Harwood?"

  "Yes. Do the police think the two incidents are connected?"

  Major Forsythe squinted at Bolan. "How could a drowning and a burglary be connected, Cummings?"

  "Just guessing."

  "I understand both you and Ms Portland were late for classes this morning."

  "Yes, sir. She'd had a minor car accident. I had to go pick her up."

  "So I'd heard."

  Denise walked into the gym. The bruise on her cheek had turned yellowish gray. The cut on her head where the bullet had creased her scalp was long. Peroxide had hastened the scabbing process. "You sent for me, Major?"

  "Yes, Portland. You and Cummings are to accompany me immediately."

  "Where?" Bolan asked.

  "The colonels want to see you." He led the way. Bolan and Denise exchanged glances, then fell in behind him.

  * * *

  "Nasty little bruise, Ms Portland." Dysert was smiling, sipping coffee from a small porcelain cup.

  "Car accident," Denise said.

  "Was it serious? That cut on your scalp looks painful."

  She shrugged. "Just a fender bender. Some jerk in a pickup rear-ended me. Looks worse than it is."

  Fowley said nothing. He just sat on the sofa and glared at her, then at Bolan.

  Dysert continued. "Good thing you had a friend like Mr. Cummings here to come to your rescue."

  "Yeah, sorry we were late," Bolan said.

  Dysert waved a dismissing hand. "No, no. Don't worry about it. We're flexible here. That's not why I called you up here." He gestured at the other leather sofa across from Fow
ley. "Please, sit. Can I get you some coffee?"

  Denise shook her head. Bolan nodded. "Sure, thanks. Black, please."

  Dysert's smile flickered for just a moment, obviously not expecting them to actually accept his offer. Bolan knew that they knew, at least about Denise. They must have caught a glimpse of her. But they weren't positive about him. That was what this was about.

  Bolan had to admire Denise. She sat next to him, smiling coolly, looking puzzled but completely innocent.

  Major Forsythe stood behind the sofa, unwilling to sit. He looked as if he considered sitting a weakness that, once indulged in, could lead to addiction.

  Dysert handed Bolan a cup of steaming coffee.

  "Thanks," Bolan said.

  "Let's get down to it," Fowley said. He was perched on the edge of the sofa like a gargoyle leaning out over the entrance to a cathedral.

  "What Colonel Fowley means," Dysert said, "is that tomorrow is, as you know, War Games day. It's our semiannual event, kind of like the ultimate test of what we teach here at Ridgemont. It's one of the reasons we were so desperate to hire after our other survival instructor left."

  "Good coffee," Bolan said, sipping.

  "Thank you," Dysert said. Some annoyance was starting to peel at the edges of his smiling mask. "Anyway, since you two are both involved in the physical training of our students, you will each be leading a group in the games. I just wanted to go over the basic format with you in case you have questions."

  "I can do that, sir," Major Forsythe said crisply. He obviously felt this meeting usurped his authority. "After all, I have been running these games for many years."

  "I know, Major, since before Colonel Fowley or myself were here. And an excellent job you've done, too."

  "We've made some changes this year, Forsythe," Fowley said, a slight sneer on his mouth. "A different scenario than usual."

  "What?" Major Forsythe stiffened, his jaw cementing into a firm line. "I have designed the games since we began them. They are carefully balanced to test the students' skills without endangering them unreasonably. That takes an awareness of the terrain and military maneuvers."

  "Protest noted," Dysert said. "But Colonel Fowley and I have decided that the games were too predictable, not a challenging enough test. We've made a few modifications, that's all. Nothing to put the students in any additional danger, believe me. That's the last thing we want. Bad for business." He laughed.