Toward Chiasso.
8
SARAH SHEPHERD STRETCHED PAINFULLY, trying to make herself comfortable on the concrete floor. Her legs and back were stiff, her shoulders sore from resting against the corrugated-metal wall behind her.
She was huddled in a corner of a Quonset hut that housed the diplomatic hostages, who were under constant guard by half a dozen terrorists, each carrying an automatic rifle slung across his shoulder. Any sudden movement by the prisoners, any conversation louder than a whisper, and an angry warning spewed from the nearest sentry.
The hut, about forty feet long, was one of several structures tightly grouped inside a barbed-wire fence. The terror-site reminded Sarah of an abandoned military post. Their prison was apparently a former barracks with the bunks and other furnishings removed. At one end, behind another corrugated wall, was a restroom and shower area. Their captors had removed the door from its hinges, and the open doorway was guarded constantly by a stern, silent rifleman.
She had seen the blond terrorist only briefly during the day, but Sarah knew he was the leader. She had watched him as he issued tight-lipped orders to the riflemen, addressing them in fluent German, Italian, and a language that sounded to her like Arabic. When he spoke, they listened and obeyed without question.
Thoughts of him reminded Sarah of the 747's jarring, hair-raising landing on a straight stretch of lonely rural highway, her own terror as the aircraft wallowed to a grinding halt that sheared off the landing gear. Terrorist reinforcements had been waiting for them on the ground.
From the makeshift landing strip, they were driven more than thirty winding miles in canvas-covered military trucks until they reached the isolated compound.
The terrorists were a motley crew—the spearhead of Americans who came aboard the plane disguised as federal agents and a larger force of Germans, Palestinians and Italians. As a group, they were having trouble with communications, but the blond man dominated and organized them with his linguistic skill and sheer commanding presence.
He frightened Sarah more than all the others put together. She did not know his plan, beyond its obvious connection with the conference, but she sensed that he would do anything to achieve his aims.
The guards had finished changing shifts an hour earlier, and one of the replacements, a swarthy Palestinian, was staring fixedly at Sarah from across the room. He seemed to be debating something with himself, frowning and shifting restlessly as he tried to arrive at some decision. Sarah felt his eyes upon her; he made her flesh crawl.
Finally, the decision made, he cast a furtive glance to either side and crossed the room. He stood in front of her, but she did not look up at him until he spoke to her directly, a single harsh monosyllable demanding her attention.
Sarah glanced up, her eyes met his, and she shook her head to indicate a lack of understanding. He gestured with the autorifle, motioning for her to rise, repeating the command.
Sarah felt a cold knot of fear growing in the pit of her stomach, and she hesitated. Desperation joined the fear inside her.
Impatiently, the gunman nudged her with a booted foot. Sarah rose stiffly, stood in front of him and forced herself to return his gaze, unflinching. She felt the color rise in her cheeks as he examined her from head to toe.
Apparently satisfied, he growled something unintelligible, and jerked his head in the direction of the open bathroom door.
Sarah stood still. The hardguy reached out and seized her by the arm. She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened, fingers digging deep into her flesh, the muzzle of his weapon jabbing into her side. Feeling numb, she let herself be led until they reached the restroom entrance.
Something turned over in her stomach and she fought to free herself from the tight restraining grip. Twisting in his grasp, she hit the Arab with her fist, striking a glancing blow against his stubbled cheek.
He shoved her through the entryway with enough force to make her stumble. Recovering, she spun to face her enemy, bringing up her hands, her fingers curling into sharp defensive claws.
The gunman kept one hand on the pistol grip of his assault rifle as he reached for her with the other. Sarah backed away from him, colliding with a metal sink. He was on her before she had a chance to duck aside. His stale breath was nauseating, and his clutching hand closed painfully around her breast.
She lashed out, fingernails raking jagged furrows down his cheek as she wrenched away from him. Part of her blouse came away in his hand.
The Arab snarled in pain, dabbing at his wounded face, withdrawing bloody fingers. He attacked, striking with such speed that Sarah never really saw it coming. Pain exploded in her skull and the next instant she was lying at his feet, deafened by the ringing in her ears.
She was dimly conscious of an uproar in the Quonset; she recognized the voice of her superior, the undersecretary, and then the terrorist was kicking her methodically, the heavy boot drumming into ribs and legs, pummelling her against the corrugated-metal wall. The salty taste of blood was in her mouth, and she was drifting on a cloud of pain.
Hopelessly, she began to scream.
PARADINE WAS ANGRY. The news of Monte Carlo was disturbing and confusing. If his snipers had not intervened in time, the ambush might have been disastrous. And he would not let anything deprive him of his prize when he had come so far, risked so much.
He was pacing through the open courtyard of his compound, checking on his men. They were tough, professional, but there was tension in the ranks and it was his task to keep things operating smoothly. Later, when the mission was completed, they could disband and butcher one another as they pleased, but the project, his vengeance, took priority.
The compound was perfect for his purposes—removed from local villages, adjacent to friendly Russian satellites, convenient for a swift retreat if necessary. It had been a base for Allied occupation troops in northern Italy.
In a pinch, the compound was defensible, but Paradine did not plan to make his stand there. He intended to emerge victorious, let revenge expunge the months of pain and humiliation he had suffered at the hands of Phoenix.
Paradine's eyes hardened at the thought of his enemy, their first encounter and his brush with death.
Paradine despised Phoenix for making him afraid. He had learned the fear of death and failure when they had clashed in Turkey, and fear had walked beside him ever since. For the first time, Paradine had suffered doubts about his own ability, his mastery of the world. And he had learned to live with nightmares. . .
Only blood would wash the fear away, make him strong and whole again. Phoenix was the center of his universe, Paradine's obsession, and the mercenary knew he could never rest until the dark warrior's blood was on his hands.
He saw Phoenix frequently, in a recurring dream that haunted him since Turkey. In the dream, he saw a soldier dressed in black, battle-clad with weapons, approaching through the acrid smoke of battle. The face was indistinct, but the eyes were piercing, cold as death and filled with infinite contempt. Paradine was kneeling unarmed, all alone, deserted by his men and stranded in the awesome warrior's path. He cringed, cowering as the man drew near. But the man passed by him. As he saw the enemy retreating into misty darkness, Paradine was overcome with sweet relief—until he realized that he had soiled himself.
Even now, memory of the dream brought a sheen of perspiration to his forehead.
Soon he would have the vengeance that he needed to exorcise the nightmare forever. Very soon.
It had been difficult to trace Phoenix, even to the bare extent that Paradine had managed. There had been no solid trace of him in Turkey, but Paradine had friends and associates around the world, denizens of the dark underground where death and information are the prime commodities of trade. He picked up a rumor of the name Phoenix without initially grasping its importance. Only time and circumstance had brought the message home.
A Western agent of extraordinary capabilities had been reported active for several months, moving through the underground at will
and leaving ruin in his wake. The man was everywhere and nowhere, a phantom drifting in and out of focus, choosing targets and eradicating them with surgical precision.
Rumor placed the agent in the Sông Hong delta, Vietnam, when a key POW had been liberated, and his name was whispered by survivors in the smoking ruins of a military installation at Aujila, Libya. Phoenix had infiltrated renegade Luke Harker's "war college" in Algiers, turning the training session into bloody chaos. The warrior had executed Ricardo "Rikki the Hyena" Roybal in the bargain, thereby eliminating Paradine's chief competition in the terrorist marketplace. There had been a lethal clash in California with the Asian, Nguyen Van Minh, and an agent matching Phoenix's description had unearthed the Russian mole, Karpetyan.
The German Zwilling Horde, a splinter of the Baader-Meinhof gang, had also met the shadow warrior, to their sorrow. Sibling founders of the Horde, the Morganslichts, were numbered in the final body count, and while Paradine had never cared for Thomas, he would miss Thomas's twin sister, Tanya, who had a knack for mixing sex and revolution.
Phoenix had even been associated with the elimination of the Russian troika that included the Hispanic, Munoz, and the Japanese, Yoshida, in that dark dawn in Cuba only weeks ago.
Phoenix had killed them all, and more; Paradine was certain of it. Save for luck, an accident of fate, he would have been among them, resting with the fallen. The angry scar beneath his gun arm was a brand, reminding him of debts outstanding.
The Phoenix code name did not tell him much, but Paradine had put enough together to surmise a nationality. His enemy was American, perhaps CIA or Army Intelligence; it did not really matter. He was linked with fiercely successful death squads and foreign legions, but essentially he stood alone.
No further knowledge had been necessary for his operation; once Paradine put the plan in motion, either Phoenix would respond, or he would not. From his sparse knowledge of the man, Paradine could not believe his foe would pass up the challenge.
Striding past the Quonset hut that housed his prisoners, he was distracted by the sound of screaming. The terrorist leader veered off course. Brushing past a pair of nervous-looking sentries, he entered the hut.
The screaming had subsided to a muffled sobbing, barely audible beyond the open bathroom door. Paradine could hear a male voice, recognizable at once, cursing fluently in Arabic, berating someone who did not or could not answer back. He strode past the guarded hostages and through the far door to find Ahmad standing tall above the youngest woman hostage, alternately cursing and kicking her.
A glance told the story—the woman's shredded blouse, a breast exposed, bloody tracks along the Arab's cheek. Paradine's eyes turned to ice behind the mirrored aviator glasses.
His voice cut through the hut.
"Enough!"
The Arab froze, one foot raised, set to land another blow. When he faced Paradine, the narrow eyes were frightened, searching for an exit. He licked dry lips, his pink lizard's tongue darting out and back, and he shifted the Kalashnikov assault rifle in his grasp.
Ahmad was trying to explain, words spilling out in rapid fire, but Paradine was not listening. The leader put on a practiced smile and kept it casual as he closed the gap, never looking at the woman on the floor. He could see the Palestinian relaxing, standing easy, trying to return the smile.
Without warning, Paradine was on him, reaching out to pluck the AK-47 from his hands. In the same fluid motion he reversed the weapon, whipped it up and over, left to right, wooden stock impacting on the Arab's jaw with a brutal crack. Ahmad fell writhing on the concrete floor, bloody spittle drooling from the mouth he could no longer close.
Paradine propped the rifle against a sink and swiftly reached down to seize the Arab by the collar of his khaki shirt, hauling the wiry gunner to his feet, holding him erect. For an instant they were eye-to-eye, and then Paradine drove the stiffened fingers of his right hand up beneath the Arab's breastbone, crushing the man's diaphragm and emptying the wind out of him.
Ahmad doubled over, retching blood, knees buckling. Paradine hit him with a vicious roundhouse kick, the heel of his paratrooper's boot connecting with the Arab's shattered jaw, hurling him sideways. The man collided head-on with a urinal and tumbled back, collapsing on the floor.
The terrorist was dying. Paradine stood over him and felt a mixture of accumulated anger and contempt welling up inside. Ahmad had broken discipline, and an example must be set for all the others. At the same time, Paradine could not deny the welcome animal exhilaration he derived from violent contact.
He began methodically to kick the fallen Arab, driving him across the bathroom floor, concentrating on the spine and kidneys. He felt the ribs give way, collapsing into vital organs. Ahmad quit groaning. His form was slack, unresponsive to the blows. The smell of urine, suddenly released, was heavy in the stagnant air.
Finally satisfied, Paradine retraced his steps, brushing past the woman on his way to the Quonset's front door. His men outside watched him in stony silence. They parted ranks at his approach. Paradine spoke to no one in particular.
"Clean up the mess," he snapped, waving toward the inside of the hut, and left them to the task of human waste disposal.
Paradine felt better, purged of anger for the moment. His treatment of the Palestinian. It had served a double function—it was educational, and it had been a warm-up for the main event, his confrontation with the man called Phoenix.
He was looking forward to it with grim anticipation.
9
BOLAN CROSSED THE BORDER South of Breil and entered Italy, holding a north-easterly course. He avoided major towns because of damage to the Citroen from his fire fight, making up the time by speeding on country roads. As the soldier drove mechanically, his mind was busy with the convoluted puzzle that his mission had become.
First on Bolan's mind was the Monte Carlo fire fight. He was convinced the ambushers were mobsters, bent on killing him and taking the ransom for themselves. If he was right, if the gunners had not been dispatched by Paradine, there was a leak somewhere . . . with the Americans, perhaps the Sûreté, even in the terrorist camp. Whichever, the implications for his mission were ominous.
If outside forces were aware of Paradise's demands, and of the American decision to respond and the route he was following, anything could happen on the road.
He was certain that the leak would not include specifics of his mission or identity. Stony Man security was absolute, inviolate. As for destination, Bolan left the Monte Carlo battlefield without survivors, and he hoped the problem had been taken care of. Except .. .
The second riddle clamored for attention, crowding out the first. Some snipers had helped him out back there, enabling him to wipe out the mobsters. It was clear the snipers knew Bolan's route and something of his mission, and that they wanted Bolan to proceed. The gunners could be following him even now, or waiting up ahead, setting yet another trap at Paradine's convenience.
Bolan shrugged it off. He had known the mission was a suck from the beginning, and an extra complication would not put him off the scent. He owed it to the hostages—and to all the future victims who would suffer if he failed to stop Paradine once and for all.
He was seeking out the dragon's lair, carrying the purifying flame. This time, the Executioner would not give up until he had destroyed the serpent.
Or until he died in the attempt.
Bolan never wasted time thinking about death. He was too damned busy living, making every moment count for something positive, taking every opportunity to strike another blow against the enemy.
Judgment day would be a search for scars instead of medals, and the Executioner had plenty of scars on his body and his soul. There would undoubtedly be more before his course was run, but he would never bear the mark of inaction, the stain of having seen his duty clear and turned away.
A fighter from youth, Mack Bolan knew only one way to play the game of life. He played to win, and there could never be a substitute for vi
ctory against the savages.
He would keep the rendezvous with Paradine's emissary at Chiasso, facing any other challenge he encountered on the way. It was his destiny.
APRIL ROSE HELD THE LASER WAGON at a steady seventy miles per hour along the coastal highway, keeping open water on her starboard flank. She ticked off the seaside towns—Cannes, Antibe, Cagnes-sur-Mer. Clearing Nice, she felt the tension building inside her. Bolan's rendezvous at Monaco was less than twenty miles away.
April knew Bolan had been right about the Laser Wagon. It was indeed conspicuous. But if they ran into an army they would need the extra firepower; the trick would be to followhim discreetly, making sure that neither Bolan nor the enemy discovered her along the way. Of the two, she was more concerned with Bolan sighting her, and she was grateful for the tracking system that would let her keep tabs on the Citroen at considerable distances.
If nothing happened. If he did not leave the car . . .
April felt the chill of fear again, and she knew instinctively that there was something wrong with this assignment. Granted it was a trap, with Bolan walking into it prepared, but there were still countless risks that he could not foresee, infinite possibilities for betrayal and ambush. Several nations were involved, and April knew that any leak, anywhere along the line, could jeopardize Bolan's life and risk exposure of the whole Phoenix program.
For the first time since she met Mack Bolan, April was running the risk of disobeying him. Under other circumstances, such defiance would have been unthinkable. But right now she was reasoning with head and heart together as one, and she sensed that the soldier needed reinforcements.
There was no way she would let him run the gauntlet by himself. No way.
She entered Monto Carlo from the west,duplicating Bolan's route as far as the casino, searching for a turnoff from the curving boulevard of the mountain-hugging coastal town that would take her down to the marina. Time was of the essence if April was to over-take him inside the city limits of this spectacular resort.
Executioner 055 - Paradine's Gauntlet Page 5
