Backlash

by Don Pendleton

  He swept the glasses the width of the house again, just to have something to do. The man he was supposed to be watching, Guillermo Pagan, was about as elusive as Bigfoot. It seemed there were a dozen stories for every sighting, and a dozen sightings for every story. The trouble was, everybody talked about him and nobody ever really saw him. They thought they saw him, or they talked to somebody else who claimed to have seen him. And that was about it. A mystery man, for sure, but what else was Guillermo Pagan? All Banazak knew for sure was that if only one story out of ten was accurate, Guillermo Pagan ought to be skinned alive and staked out on an anthill.

  Once second-in-command of Somoza's private army, Pagan now spent his time, if the rumors were true, running drugs to finance an overthrow of the Sandinista regime. But Byron Wade wouldn't confirm or deny any of it. All he wanted was someone to watch. He wouldn't even say what to look for. Since Wade was his boss, he did what he was told. And that's why Pete Banazak found himself sitting in a tree. Six years on the Miami police force had brought him this far, and no farther.

  Watching the chopper without the glasses, he fidgeted nervously in the tree. Bracing his back against the trunk, he stretched out his legs and let them dangle on either side of his perch to relieve the cramping. The worst part of the assignment was that he and Weston were forbidden to do anything but watch. No matter what happened — and their orders were explicit on this point — they were there to gather information, and only that. Both men knew it was because Pagan was rumored to be well connected, to have friends in high places. And by high, it was understood, they were talking about something considerably more lofty than the mayor's office.

  Danny Weston, ten years Banazak's senior, shrugged it off. He had four years to go for a pension. That was his primary goal in life, and the less he had to exert himself in the remaining four years, the happier he was. Banazak, on the other hand, chafed under the restriction. He had heard enough stories, and placed enough credence in them, to know that Pagan was probably responsible for half of the cocaine run through Florida. The word on the street was that Pagan was plugged into Medellín. On a wire between Colombia and Washington, drawn tight and razor-sharp, Señor Pagan tiptoed over Miami like a black angel. It would give Pete Banazak genuine pleasure to rap that wire once or twice with a stout stick to see just how good a dancer Guillermo Pagan might be.

  The hypnotic rhythm of the chopper's whirling blades suddenly faltered, and the engine roared. The searchlights went out, and the bird began to climb. A pair of lights erupted from the southeast like spears of fire and raced straight at the chopper. Banazak couldn't see past the bright light, but it had to be coming from a second helicopter.

  He got Weston on the horn, then shinnied down the tree and raced to the wall surrounding Pagan's compound. When he topped the wall, he paused as if frozen. A lance of brilliant orange raced toward the struggling chopper. The ball of flame was abrupt and total. Banazak knew enough about munitions to recognize a Stinger missile. The chopper, its parts starkly outlined against the bright ball of fire, now looked like a blowup schematic. All that was missing were the little numbers and arrows. The flames disappeared, as if sucked back into the tube from which they'd come, and Banazak heard the tinny racket of wreckage scattering on the terra-cotta roof and sliding to the ground.

  He raced toward the house, drawn as much by his own excitement as by any thought that he might be able to do something useful. All the lights in the house went out. Someone had thrown a master switch, or cut the main power line. Even the floods were dark. Small pools of fire trickled down the roof where puddles of the chopper's fuel had spilled. They ran into the flashing and oozed along the gutters, outlining the roof in bright orange, like Christmas lights in July.

  The floodlights flashed on again, but the rest of the house remained dark. Banazak heard a shout behind him and stopped in his tracks. The shout came again, louder, and he heard footsteps. Weston burst out of the darkness, racing toward him. "What the fuck happened?" he shouted.

  "I don't know. Something blew the chopper right out of the sky. A missile, I think. The house is on fire from the chopper's fuel. That's all I saw."

  Headlights slashed through the dense shrubbery to the right of the house. The squeal of tires was almost drowned out by the roaring engine as a limousine swerved around the corner and headed straight for them, bouncing across the lawn and through the carefully tended flowerbeds. A searchlight appeared in the sky, then swept across the lawn, tracking the limo. It picked Weston out, swept past him, then came back. Banazak shouted, but Weston didn't hear him. A minigun on the second chopper opened up, and Weston turned back toward the wall. Gouts of turf spouted around him as the gunner walked his 7.62 mm fire toward the stunned cop.

  "Dan, get down!" Banazak shouted. "Hit it!" But Weston kept running. When the gunner found his range, Weston jerked like a drunken puppet, his arms thrown up over his head. He turned twice in an awkward pirouette. The gunner let go with a tight burst, and Weston was slammed backward. Chunks of flesh were torn from his body, and Banazak, hugging the ground twenty feet away, felt the sticky splatter of blood rain down on his neck and hands. Something stung his cheek, and he reached to wipe it away.

  A sliver of bone protruded from his face, and he tugged it free, wincing with the pain. He realized the bone was Weston's, and he knew his partner was dead. The chopper roared past overhead as the limo dodged under the trees and skidded into the stone wall. With a tortured squeal, the big car sprinted along the wall, a geyser of sparks arcing up over its roof until the driver managed to get away from the jagged stone.

  Banazak scrambled to his feet and rushed toward the motionless body of Dan Weston. The cop lay on his side, curled into a ball. His left arm lay alongside of him, splayed at a crazy angle, and looked as if it belonged to someone else. Banazak felt for a pulse, but there was nothing. Only then did he realize Weston's arm had been shattered at the elbow, the forearm still attached by shreds of cartilage.

  Then he turned toward the wall and saw the limo sitting motionless under the heavy foliage. The leaves burst into a bright green as the helicopter tried to find it with the searchlight. Banazak climbed to his feet, looking stupidly at the automatic in his hand, then shook his head. A sharp hiss snapped him back to reality, and he looked back toward the limo as a rocket slammed into the wall just behind it. A second rocket whooshed away from the chopper, and Banazak raised his 9 mm Browning. He fired once, then just kept squeezing the trigger until the clip was empty. He started to run as a third rocket slammed into the limo.

  An orange balloon inflated around the car, then it seemed to fold in two like a pocketknife. Its body, a flat shadow at the heart of the ball of fire, stood on its bumpers, like an awkward letter A. Banazak slammed a new clip into his Browning and dropped to one knee. He fired more methodically this time, chewing on the tip of his tongue and smiling as he saw the sparks where several of his slugs had glanced off the engine housing.

  The chopper seemed to pivot on its rotor shaft, then started to climb. A pair of rockets screamed overhead, and Banazak heard them slam into the house before he could turn his head. The aircraft continued to climb, and he emptied his second magazine, then tucked the pistol into his waistband. He sprinted toward the house, now burning from end to end. Two huge holes gaped in the terra-cotta tiles where the last two rockets had torn into the building. Smoke spiraled up through the holes, catching the orange color of the fuel still burning in the copper gutters.

  When he was within fifty yards, a second car roared around the corner of the house, this time heading straight for the gate. Banazak hollered for the car to stop, but if the driver heard him, he paid no attention.

  The first siren moaned off in the distance, and Banazak was dimly aware that the world didn't end at the stone wall behind him. For a moment the thunder and the hellish glare of the burning limousine and building were the only things his mind had room for. Then he remembered Danny Weston. He wanted to turn back to his dead partner, as if
it might make a difference, but he knew there could be people trapped in the blazing house. And he knew Weston, if he could, would tell him to help the living. That was what they got paid for. It was what they did best.

  Or at least it used to be.

  He didn't see the two men racing toward him from the wall. Banazak sank to the ground as the first burst of gunfire sailed over his head. If he hadn't gone down, it would have torn his head off. He turned in bewilderment. He spotted the shadows and started to bring his gun around. The two men had stopped in their tracks, machine pistols held at waist level. The loud report of another gun jerked his head to the left.

  When he looked back, one of the gunners had gone down. The second seemed confused. He was yelling in Spanish, then jerked his gun around to fire into the darkness. A second shot cracked, and that gunman, too, went down. Banazak, galvanized by the sudden quiet, leaped to his feet.

  "What the hell's going on?" he shouted.

  "That's what I want to know," Mack Bolan said, stepping out of the shadows.

  "Who the hell are you?"

  "That's not something you want to know."

  Bolan watched Banazak race toward him. The young cop seemed confused, his gun half dangling and half trained on the warrior. The big guy ducked back into the shadows. He could hear Banazak calling to him, but his work wasn't finished. The second limousine darted past him, its tires spinning on the slick lawn, then bounded toward the main gate and was gone.

  Bolan vaulted the wall, landing lightly on the balls of his feet. He raced to his Buick. The engine was still running and the driver's door hanging open tike an amazed mouth. The warrior kicked it in gear before the door closed and roared past the main gate, now a garish orange where the ruined limousine still spewed flames and sooty smoke into the night.

  It was time Byron Wade came clean.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hoffman sat for a long time watching Bartlett's house. When all the lights but one went out, he slipped from his car and crossed the road. The split-rail fence was no obstacle, and the long climb uphill through the knee-high weeds was tiring but negotiable.

  He could kick himself for having lost the camera, but he knew what he'd seen, and that would have to be good enough. If he couldn't persuade Bartlett to at least investigate, he might as well pack it in. There was no way in hell he could ever turn his back on another Company man.

  He approached the house carefully but without the usual paranoia. He knew Bartlett well enough to know that the man was a throwback. He still lived in the age of gentleman spies. No bodyguards, no television surveillance. Hell, he'd be surprised if Bartlett even remembered to throw on the hard-wired burglar alarm. But Winston Bartlett wasn't a fool, despite his affectations.

  And Hoffman had seen the DDO on the shooting range. Executives at his level were excused from the semiannual qualification rounds, but Bartlett insisted on taking his turn. There were stories about him, some of them no doubt apocryphal, behind the Nazi lines. Wild Bill Donovan himself was said to have presented him with a special citation, and Bartlett, like a dwindling handful of other OSS boys, still worshiped at the old man's church.

  Hoffman knew he was on slippery turf. All he could ask was a fair hearing, and if he didn't get it from Winston Bartlett, he wasn't going to get it at all. It was a fool's errand, but he couldn't walk away from it. Under his carefully cultivated veneer of cynicism, Gil Hoffman cared about the Agency that had been his life for twenty-five years.

  Stepping over the low stone wall separating the meadow from the tailored lawn, he was startled by the sound of an automobile engine in the distance. He froze for an instant, then turned toward the sound, seeing headlights bobbing among the trees. It couldn't be that Bartlett was expecting anyone, because the house was all but dark.

  When the car slowed, as if searching for something, Hoffman dropped down alongside the wall, pressing himself into the grass, not daring even to raise his head to look toward the driveway. The beams swept over him for a second, splashing a slice of his shadow against the stone, then lighting the redwood wall of the house. When the car's tires crunched on the gravel, Hoffman peeked over the wall for an instant. A light went on in the first-floor foyer.

  The vehicle halted a few feet from the porch. The driver extinguished the headlights and turned off the engine. The man got out, but his face was averted, and Hoffman couldn't tell who it was. He crossed in front of the car, then mounted the steps. The porch light went on, but it was still impossible to see the driver's face. Hoffman could hear the door chimes, then the door opened.

  Bartlett stood there, his suit coat off, but still wearing his vest and pinstriped trousers. He stepped aside to admit the visitor, then closed the door, pausing for a second to look out over the lawn as if he sensed something out there in the darkness.

  Another light went on. Hoffman stared across the lawn into what must have been Bartlett's study. Books in leather bindings lined the wall opposite the window, then Bartlett blocked his view. He closed the draperies, and Hoffman was cut off, still not knowing who had come to call.

  Hoffman waited patiently, debating whether to approach the house. He kept vacillating. It seemed odd that the man would have an unexpected guest at this hour, then he realized that it was no odder than his own purpose. And there was a distinct possibility of some connection between his presence and that of the caller.

  What the hell, he thought, getting to his knees. He stepped over the stone wall, then sprinted straight toward the window of the study. It would be too much to ask for it to be open, but he still might be able to hear something useful. Pressing himself flat against the house, he paused to catch his breath, then rose on tiptoe until his ear was just below the windowledge.

  Mumbled conversation rose and fell. Little scraps of words, pieces of sentences, seemed almost audible, but he realized he was interpreting the mumble by interjecting his own purpose and resolved to be more objective.

  Moving the length of the wall, he reached a corner and found another window into the same room. This one was curtained but closed just as tightly as the first. Straining to get his ear to the glass, he nearly lost his footing. The voices were more animated now, not louder, but more insistent in their exchanges. Bartlett seemed to be angry, the visitor even angrier. But Hoffman still couldn't hear anything specific. It was all a matter of tone.

  The voices died away, and he strained harder, then heard the click of a door latch. He heart Bartlett's voice around the front of the house, and realized this was his chance. The alarm would be off with the door open, and he tried the window. It resisted at first, but he dug his fingers under the sash, squeezing them in until their tips burned. He jerked upward and the sash rose.

  He had to get inside before the door closed and the alarm went back on. Hauling himself up, he ducked his head through the opening and rested his chest on the sill. Using his shoulders, he shoved the window wider, then tumbled through, landing with a thud on the hard wooden floor. He got to his knees and tugged the sash back just as he heard the front door close.

  Hoffman felt for his pistol, just in case, then got to his feet. The light was still on, which meant that Bartlett would be coming back. He stepped to the door, flattening himself against the wall just inside. He unholstered the pistol and released the safety. The knob on the study door squeaked, and he held his breath. A moment later Bartlett stood in the doorway.

  Hoffman waited for the DDO to step through, then jabbed the pistol into his ribs.

  "Are you alone?"

  Bartlett turned slowly until he could see Hoffman's face. "So soon?"

  "I said are you alone?"

  "Yes."

  "Good."

  "I've been expecting you, Gilbert. I've been worried about you."

  "Don't bullshit me, Bartlett."

  "Bullshitting isn't a suitable pastime for a gentleman, Gilbert. Surely you know that. I wish I could say I'm surprised to see you, but unfortunately that's not the case."

  "We have to t
alk."

  "I should say we do. Why don't you put the gun away and act like a civilized man for a few moments, eh?"

  "Come on, Bartlett, don't run that number on me. I'm not some jerk fresh off the farm."

  "Of course you're not. That's why I assume you know how to use a chair. Sit down, Gilbert." Bartlett lowered his arms. He didn't seem the least bit nervous, and that made Hoffman suspicious. He was wired to begin with. And if Bartlett wasn't surprised to see him, then he might have his own surprise in store for Hoffman.

  "You're somewhat of a desperado, I've been given to understand. Is that right?"

  "I suppose."

  "Then Mr. Arledge was telling the truth?"

  "I don't know what he told you."

  "Why not let him tell us both?"

  Hoffman jerked his head toward the door, but Bartlett laughed. "No, no, no. He's gone. But his words are still with us."

  The older man walked toward his desk. "Come over here where you can see me. I don't want you to get anxious and shoot me unnecessarily. Unless that's why you came?"

  "No, I said we have to talk."

  "All right now. Just be patient." Bartlett reached under his desk and pulled a small drawer open. He pressed a button, and Hoffman heard the whirring of tape. "Sit down," Bartlett said. "This will take no longer than it just took, eh?"

  He pressed a second button, and Hoffman heard the hum of an amplifier, then Bartlett's voice, telling Arledge to sit down. Ignoring his superior's advice to sit, Hoffman stood rooted to the spot while he listened to a replay of the conversation that had just taken place. This time he could hear it all plainly. Too plainly. And he was almost amused to realize he hadn't unfairly been projecting himself into the middle of the conversation. He was, in fact, the principal topic.

  The two men raised their voices as the tape wound on, then reached an abrupt conclusion. There was the sound of forced pleasantry, then a brief pause as the voices faded away. Finally there was the unmistakable sound of a window being raised and the hard thump of bone on wood. "I trust you did no permanent damage when you landed," Bartlett said.