Mack Bolan once more sent a foot flying into the body of Rudi, now lying doubled-over on the floor. The kick connected with Rudi's thick throat. Groaning turned to a bubbling choke.
"That one's for Munich," intoned the Executioner.
Another vicious kick found its home on the carcass of the writhing giant.
"That one's for Mountbatten."
Yet another kick buried Bolan's foot deep into Rudi's quivering flesh. The blows were a litany for the victim of terrorist outrages. If the victims could not fight back, the Executioner would do it for them. As he lashed out at Rudi to humiliate him, to shame him solely to set him up for the plans he had for Rudi in his unfolding strategy, the Executioner became grievously saddened. It hurt him to invoke the names of the dead and the maimed, the more so because of society's shameful reluctance to avenge their suffering.
Why does modern mankind allow the gutless warfare of terrorism to continue while the host countries whimper their toothless statements of official frowning? Why does the language itself betray basic decency, so that terrorists are said by newsreaders to have taken "responsibility" instead of "blame" for their cowardly and disgusting acts? Why don't we call it as it is?
"And that one's for the children." The last kick was to the kidney, its quick agility and direct force communicating very powerfully. Mack Bolan's position as regards the murder and the maiming of young kids who in their hundreds now strayed innocently into the death zone of maniacs.
It was then that Bolan saw the door ajar.
Tanya Morganslicht stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips, lips curled in cruel amusement. "It pleases me that you two have found some way to pass the time."
Rudi struggled to rise. He was in panic now and wheezed painfully as he breathed against the bruises that were luridly discoloring his upper body. "He forced me," Rudi gasped. He was standing now, but bent over from the white pain that was twisting into his groin. "He tried to escape... I stopped him," he burbled in phlegmsoaked German.
"Yes, so I see." She stooped over and picked up his club, handing it to him. "After you have cleaned yourself, pass the command among the men that there has been a change in plan. We proceed with our planned attack tomorrow. There will be a final run through in the morning and everyone had better do magnificently." Her voice crackled with electricity. Rudi left in agony. Tanya closed the door behind him.
"I told you he didn't like you," she said.
"I've always had trouble making friends," Bolan said. "Maybe I'm just too shy."
She shook her head. "Somehow I doubt that, Sergeant. Relax, please."
"It's why I joined the army, to meet people."
"Your lack of political commitment is disgusting," she said. "Sit down while I talk." The woman let her eyes roam over Bolan's face and body. "You remind me so much of my father. A fine man, well-liked in the community, an architect. Respected by everyone. He gave to charities, particularly a Zionist group in our town. My own father, donating large amounts of money for the theft of Palestine! We often asked him why he did it, my brother and I." She continued to gaze at Bolan's glistening neck and chest, but there was a faraway look in her eyes that indicated she was lost in her personal history.
"Then one day at the university, Thomas and I were approached by PLO recruiters. They were aware of our sentiments concerning Israel and the Zionists. And they showed us why our father was so "dedicated" to the Zionist cause. As an architect during the war, he had personally designed two concentration camps."
Mack Bolan was still catching his breath from his recent exertion. Tanya searched his face for a reaction. When he offered her none she continued. "It was such a freeing experience, that information. Now we felt free to be who we really were, to follow our own beliefs and let our father wallow in his guilt and self-pity with the hoodlum Jews." Her cheeks were flushed with emotion. "It wasn't too long after that that Thomas and I traveled to Libya for a summer's combat training in revolutionary methods."
"Terrorism," muttered a hard Mack Bolan.
She shrugged. "It doesn't matter what you call it. When we win, we'll be called revolutionary heroes. Until then, we'll be called terrorists." She unfastened the tight combat bun of her hair and shook it free. The shiny black mane splashed like dark waves over her shoulders. She walked slowly to the fireplace, removed the hurricane lamp from the mantel, tilted the glass bell and lit the wick, then placed the lamp on the table in the center of the room.
She switched off the overhead light. "I hope you don't mind being room-mates with Rudi," she said. "He's been so lonely since you killed his friend Klaus."
"What you mean is, you don't trust me and you want someone to stand guard. Especially now that tomorrow is D-Day."
Tanya ignored Bolan's words. Instead she turned to face him where he sat on the edge of his damaged cot, and she began to unbutton her blouse. The room was semidark, washed with swaying shadows from the flickering hurricane lamp.
It reminded Bolan of being at the bottom of a lighted swimming pool. He watched quietly as she unfastened each button, not hurriedly, but not with deliberate slowness either-methodically, as if she were field stripping a rifle. When she had finished with the last button of her green combat shirt, Bolan confirmed what he'd known all Mong, that she wore no bra despite her ample breasts. Tanya took a few steps closer to him, as if waiting for him to make the next move. Her shirt hung open, revealing smooth dark skin and the soft swell of firm breasts. "We've decided to let you live," she said suddenly, her voice all business. "And, after completing our mission tomorrow, we will give you a percentage of the profits."
"How big a percentage?" Bolan asked.
There was an edge of anger in her voice. "Big enough. You should learn to be happy with what you get, grateful even."
Bolan let his eyes drift down to her open shirt. "And how do you want me to show this gratitude?"
"However I decide," she said, taking and her step toward him. There was the sound of a rapid knock on the door. Without waiting for a reply, Hermann pushed into the room. "Say, Rudi, I wanted to know..." He looked up, surveyed the room, lingered an extra moment on Tanya's open blouse, began stammering. "I... uh... Rudi was supposed... I'll j-just...." He started to back out the door.
"Idiod!" Tanya barked. "Come here!"
Hermann nervously closed the door and marched toward her. The buxom commander made no attempt to rebutton her blouse. Somehow that was even more demeaning to the German, as if his opinion was too insignificant to care about.
"Don't you know any better than to enter a cabin without being invited in?"
"Yes, but I thought Rudi was, well, I thought..."
Her hand shot through the air and slapped Hermann across the cheek. His head snapped to one side.
"I don't care what you thought. This is not Rudi's cabin. It is my cabin. All the cabins are my cabin. You are permitted to stay in one of my cabins because I choose to suffer your presence. Do you understand?"
He looked at Bolan sheepishly.
"Don't look at him," she yelled, slapping him again with both a forehand and backhand.
Blood swelled on his lower lip and trickled down his chin. "Now answer me."
"Yes, Commander Morganslicht. I understand."
"Interesting training technique," Bolan said.
"There's a little of the storm trooper in you after all." Tanya spun around, her eyes black and blazing. "You think my troops aren't loyal to me because I am forced to discipline them occasionally? How little you understand us, Sergeant Grendal. It is not like your own decadent army. I am a parent to my followers, treating them as I would my own children. And sometimes, like any parent, I must punish them for their own good and that of their family."
"Yeah, sure."
"You doubt me?"
"Nope. Just wouldn't want to turn my back on them if I were you."
She walked over to the hurricane lamp and carefully removed the hot glass cover. The shadows in the room shifted slightly. "Hermann," she
said and he walked over to where she stood. "Give me your left hand."
Without hesitation, he stuck out his left hand which she guided by the fingertips until it hovered less than two inches above the yellow flame.
Hermann winced, his face clenching into a tight sweating mask of endurance. She held the hand there, all the time staring into Bolan's eyes and smiling. The sickening sweet smell of burning flesh wafted through the air. Bolan could hear the skin sizzling and blistering.
"Enough," she said, turning the hand away from the hungry flame.
Sweat dripped down Hermann's face, pain knotted his brow. He stood still, without a sound. Tanya flipped the burned hand over and showed it to Bolan. The flesh was charred in the center, still smoking around the crisp circle. It looked as if a small comet had struck his palm. "That is loyalty, Sergeant Grendal. The type your kind will never fathom. That's because with us, loyalty is repaid." She lifted Hermann's damaged hand lovingly to her mouth and kissed the blistered wound. Then she lowered it again, slipping it under her open blouse and pressing it itgainst her firm breast. Despite his intense pain Hermann stared greedily at her open blouse. Tanya smiled at him and patted his cheek. "Now go get this bandaged."
He left quickly.
"Naturally I used his left hand so as not to jeopardize his fitness with a rifle for tomorrow's assault."
"How thoughtful."
She replaced the glass bell on the hurricane lamp and turned back to Bolan.
"Your sarcasm does not bother me, Sergeant. I have been very good to these men. I have slept with most of them at least once. Does that shock you?"
"No, it bores me."
She stood staring at Bolan for a full minute without moving. Her face was a fixed mask etched in ice.
Bolan returned her stare without blinking. He tried to penetrate the frosty exterior to understand what went on inside her head. From observation he had determined that both the twins were certifiably crazy.
Thomas Morganslicht was probably born that way, or at least acted as if he'd always been nuts. But Tanya Morganslicht seemed to have chosen craziness as a life-style. And that made her the more dangerous. Finally she broke off her stare, though Bolan figured she could have kept it up for hours had she wanted to. She buttoned the front of her blouse and walked to the door, pausing only to say. "You will need your rest for tomorrow." Then she closed the door behind her.
Bolan stretched out on the surviving cot he tried to formalize a plan to free the hostages, foil tomorrow's mission, and devastate the Zwilling Horde until they were nothing more than a smoking hole in the ground. Simple, sure. The situation was an arousing one for the Executioner.
Thomas Morganslicht had hated him from the start.
After his humiliating beating, Rudi Blau would probably try to kill him at first opportunity.
And now he had alienated Tanya Morganslicht until tonight his only ally. Yeah, things were heating up all right. And tomorrow they would boil over. The question was, who would be scalded most?
18
General Fordharn "Cruiser" Wilson tightened the belt of his bathrobe as he walked down the long staircase. It was barely 05.00 but the bright morning sun was already seeping through an early fog all over Germany. He loved these crisp, clear German mornings, remembering fondly how many of their sunrises he had witnessed when he was younger. A smile spread across his face and he shook his head like a proud father at the young man he used to be. Ah, well, never again. Not with these kinds of responsibilities.
He tightened his bathrobe again and wandered through the living room into the kitchen. He was surprised to find his houseguest up already, fully dressed, shaved, sipping freshly brewed coffee while he read the morning newspaper.
"Up early, aren't you, Mr. Grimaldi?"
Jack shrugged. "Not for me."
"I see," the general said. But he knew better. He had seen the concern and worry on this man's face ever since he had returned from Munich without the remarkable Colonel Phoenix.
The general was intrigued by the devotion this mysterious colonel seemed to inspire. Hell, he'd even found himself willing to follow the man's orders. The general too had inspired men to fierce loyalty, back when he was a commander in Korea. Despite heavy casualties and biting cold, his men had followed him into the hell jaws of battle after battle. That's where he'd picked up the nickname "Cruiser," because he and his men plowed through the enemy like a runaway battlecruiser. Medals, sure, and plenty of citations, but the one thing he had earned there that really mattered was his men's respect.
That was all that counted. Well, now it was time to let some of the younger men take over the fight.
"You read German?" General Wilson said, pointing at the local newspaper Grimaldi was leafing through.
"Nope, I just look at the pictures and wonder why the people in them look as dopey as the people in photos back home."
"Just guess it's the nature of newspapers to capture people at their worst."?
"Maybe so." Jack toyed absently with the spoon in his coffee cup.
"Look, Grimaldi," the general said, pouring himself a cup of coffee, "I don't know much about this Colonel Phoenix of yours except that he's got a top secret clearance that runs all the way to the White House. And I know a couple other things about him that I didn't get from any report."
"Yeah, what's that?"
"I know from the way he handled Sergeant Grendal that he's a tough man. I know from the way he staged that fake shooto-ut here that he's a smart man. And I know from those reports about the Zwilling Horde massacre of the Black Sunday group that he's got them running in circles chasing their tails. My God, what kind of man convinces one group of terrorists to attack another group?"
Jack Grimaldi grinned.
"Yeah, I just wish I were in there giving him a hand." The general ran his palms through his thick gray hair and sighed. "We all do, son. Believe me. But any man who can do what he's accomplished already, probably doesn't need our help. His methods are the best yet."
Jack Grimaldi nodded. Sure, it was a hell of an achievement, to get as far as Colonel Phoenix had gotten, but it was stretching the odds to the tearing point to hope he could get much further alone. But where to look? How to get him that help?
19
"Hit the dirt! Hit the dirt!" The two Zwilling Horde terrorists dived over the wall and landed face-down in the hard snowbank on the other side.
"Fine," Bolan said in English-accented German. "Now the next two. Go!"
Two more hardguys hefted their new Uzis and charged across the campground, leaping the short wooden wall near the cabin. Then each stood up and brushed the snow from his clothing.
"Forget your damned clothing!" Bolan yelled at them. "Protect your gun. Tuck it close to your body when you go over the wall, then cradle it when you roll. Next two!"
Thomas Morganslicht watched from the porch of his cabin, raking his thick black hair into place with his fingers, then absently chewing on his finger-nails again.
Something was not right. He didn't know what it was exactly, but he had this sour, dizzy feeling, almost like seasickness. Perhaps just the excitement, he wondered. After all, today was the day. The day when the Zwilling Horde would demonstrate to the world its brilliance and commitment. In a few hours they would have their deadly prize. Then, within a few days, hundreds would die. Perhaps even thousands. But still his stomach churned and twisted. Especially in the presence of this American. Last night had been particularly bad. He had not been able to relax more than a few minutes at a time, and when he did fall asleep the nightmare returned. A hooded figure, face of granite, fire shooting from his fingertips, horrible flames. Even thinking about it now caused his stomach to a chew and he could feel the slick film of sweat coating his skin. It was absurd to think that this hooded figure had anything to do with this American soldier. Dreams were only dreams, a shuffling of images and fears. He had learned about them in the university, though he had not done well in that course. Tanya had to do some of his
homework so he would not fail.
Yes, Tanya. Sweet, ever-present Tanya. She had always been there to help him, to explain things, to protect him. Even when he hadn't wanted her help she was there.
He glanced around the camp at all the early morning activity. Men huffing and puffing in the chilly mountain air, their breath steaming like farm horses. The snow was hard and crusty from the constant melting and freezing process, but the roads remained clear and dry. There would be no trouble with transportation today.
"Tuck your headl" Bolan yelled at Hermann, who dived over the wall and flopped miserably on his stomach in an effort to protect his bandaged hand.
Thomas watched Tanya walking across the camp, her boots crunching through the snow. Her long black hair was knotted into a tight bun and tucked under her wool cap. Combat style, that's what she called it. Her face was its usual porcelain cold. He smiled. She was so proud of her self-control, her haughty distance. And it was true she was almost supernaturally cool during the most threatening crisis. But he knew, too, how that pale face would soon burn with blood lust when they were within range of their target. That was the only time she showed genuine passion.
"What's the American doing shouting orders at our men?" he rasped at her as she approached the porch.
"I told him to run the men through a few special drills. Don't worry, he knows what he's doing. We should take advantage of his knowledge."
"You haven't forgotten our decision to kill him after this is over, have you?" he whispered.
"On the contrary," she smiled. "I want you did your best work on him. Exceed yourself. I want what you did to those two agents to look like kindness. There should not be one square inch of his body left unexplored that might cause him excruciating pain. And not just pain, I want you to humiliate him however you can, physically, psychologically. Get Rudi to help you, I'm sure he'd appreciate the opportunity. And then when our Sergeant Grendal reaches that limbo beyond pain, I want you to chop his body into bits except for the head. That we want them to recognize. After they receive his remains the authorities will think twice about how they are to deal with us."
Blood Sport te-46 Page 8
