M.I.A. Hunter

by Mertz, Stephen

  For the moment, it was all Stone needed.

  They had timed the rendezvous for sundown, when the pickup would be covered by descending darkness, and now the time was drawing near. Stone checked his watch and flicked a glance at Hog, behind the wheel, silently willing the huge Texan to milk some more speed out of the car, to get them through the throngs of people and on to their destination on time.

  Hog was glaring at the rearview mirror, chewing over something that he didn't like the taste of. It took another moment for him to confirm, and underneath the beard, his rugged face was set into an angry mask as he began to speak.

  "Aw, shit. We've got a tail."

  The others did not turn around to check their back trail. No point in tipping off the opposition that their presence had been noted.

  "Are you sure?" Loughlin asked unnecessarily.

  "Sure, I'm sure. The last two turns were just for them. They're hanging tight."

  "Well, dammit."

  Stone was thinking fast, calculating probabilities, and he was ready for an answer when Hog spoke again.

  "You want I should shake 'em?"

  "Negative," he snapped. "Until we know the players, let's not make any sudden moves."

  "You figure C.I.A.?"

  Mark shrugged resignedly.

  "Who knows? Could be anybody."

  And that was the hell of it. In Thailand, here and now, the secret operatives of half a hundred nations were at work, gathering intelligence about Vietnamese, Laotians, Cambodians, Chinese. Bangkok and points east served the same listening-post function for the West in Asia that Berlin served in Europe, or Hong Kong along the Chinese mainland.

  Not that it was free of Communists—far from it. China, Vietnam, the Soviets . . . all had their men and women in Bangkok, their ears to the underground, picking up whatever fell unguarded through the fine net of security. It was a two-way street, and it was every bit as crowded as the city's other, more apparent avenues of commerce.

  "Take them to the drop," Stone said at last, not missing the sudden startled glance he got from Hog.

  "You sure about that?"

  "I'm sure. We can't afford to miss this pickup, and the dealer can look out for himself. He's been at it long enough."

  Law of the jungle, damned right, and they were in the jungle now. It didn't take a sea of trees and liana vines to hide the predators who stalked them in Bangkok, and they would have to be every bit as cautious in the city as they would out in the bush.

  As for An Kohm, he was a born survivor. Stone was not concerned about the possibility of leading their pursuers to his door. The old man had not come so far, survived so long in his chosen field, by allowing himself to be vulnerable.

  "We're almost there."

  Hog managed a slow, awkward lane change, drifting toward the left-hand curb and setting himself up for the turn. Their new street was narrower than the last, and if anything, it seemed more congested with jostling humanity. Wiley restrained himself from leaning on the horn, but it was taking all the self-control he had to keep from rolling down a window and telling all these jostling crowds to get the hell out of his way, and fast.

  "Up there, right side. The pagoda front."

  "Gotcha."

  "See if you can work your way around into the alley at the rear."

  "Will do."

  It took nearly ten minutes to cover the last half-block and turn into a narrow alley just beyond their target, but they finally made it, picking up some angry glares from gesturing pedestrians and bicyclists along the way. Hog returned them all with equanimity, his lifted middle finger offering the old salute to all and sundry.

  As they rumbled down the alley, crunching trash beneath their tires, Stone risked a backward glance and saw their tail slide by in traffic. Black and squarish, it was a typical government car, but which government? The face that turned to glance at him, and just as swiftly turned away, was white. It might have been American or British, even Russian.

  Never mind. He put the riddle into storage for the moment, concentrating on the task at hand. They had arrived, and nothing must prevent them from securing the supplies he had ordered from An Khom. Nothing. Anyone who got in their way from this point on was asking for trouble of the terminal variety.

  Stone hoped it wasn't C.I.A., but in the last analysis, it really didn't matter. His own government had written off the M.I.A's, from all appearances, aligned themselves with all the other groups and nations who were too complacent, too goddamned self-satisfied about the end of the war to care whether several thousand innocents remained behind to pay the price in perpetuity. And while Stone would not have considered shooting down a government employee under any circumstances in the States, it was a different ballgame in the Asian jungle killing grounds.

  Out here, all men were equal, and all whites were aliens, intruders. The C.I.A. had license to pursue its interests here, of course, but that was license out of Washington, and it was no more binding on Mark Stone than was the warrant issued on him out of Ho Chi Minh City some months earlier. He would cooperate with anyone who helped him—and God help the bastards who opposed him in his efforts to release the long-suffering prisoners he sought.

  Hog found a parking place, or made his own, and killed the engine. In the alley, dusk had become darkness. "Want me to stick with the car?" Wiley asked.

  "Yeah. We'll check inside, and call you when it's time to shift the load."

  "Roger that."

  Stone and Loughlin left the rental car and crossed the narrow alley, working their way up a side street to the avenue they had only lately left. They would have to approach the pagoda from the front, its only public entrance, and they risked exposure in the process, but they had no choice. If there was trouble waiting for them, they would find it—or it would find them—soon enough.

  Chapter Five

  From dusk, they entered into stygian darkness. It required a moment for their eyes to adjust to the light of distant candles, flickering in the gloom around a smallish altar at the far end of the room.

  The air was thick with incense, almost choking, and the smell of it brought back a flood of memories for Stone. Another tour of duty, in another time and place, with other enemies.

  No, scratch that. He was still up against the same damned enemy. The same eternal enemy. The names had changed, and the faces, but the evil that they worked was still the same, unaltered.

  And if the war required his presence in a temple, he could live with it, although he had no firm belief in any higher power, any guiding hand.

  They paced off the pagoda's central aisle, moving toward the altar, cautious in the semidarkness of the unfamiliar room. They were alone, or so it seemed, but warriors never trust luck or take security for granted.

  Stone kept one hand inside the jacket he wore despite the heat, and under there, his fingers rested on the butt of his Beretta 93-R. Smuggling it aboard aircraft was becoming more and more of a challenge, especially with the renewed spate of hijackings stateside, but he managed, with a little ingenuity. And it was comforting to touch the cool steel now; it seemed to drive the shadows back and hold them at bay.

  Beside the altar was an open doorway, screened with long strings of hanging plastic beads. Stone led the way, brushing through the rustling curtain, Loughlin close upon his heels.

  They found themselves inside an empty anteroom with doors on either side. Stone searched his memory, trying to recall whether it was to the right or the left, finally deciding on the latter. He was reaching out to knock, his right hand still occupied beneath the jacket, when a voice behind them startled him.

  "Welcome to Bangkok," it said.

  The warriors spun around, and the Beretta was no longer sheathed as Stone prepared to face the enemy. Instead, he found himself the object of scrutiny for two narrow, dark, familiar eyes.

  It was An Khom.

  There was no door behind the tiny figure, at least none that Stone or Loughlin could detect, but they refrained from asking how
the little Oriental had moved up behind them with such stealth. Stone knew that if he had the time and the need, he could search out the secret passageway behind the altar.

  For the moment it was not required, and so he let it go, dismissed the puzzle from his thoughts. He sheathed his weapon, bowing slightly from the waist in greeting.

  "An Khom."

  "Welcome," the old man repeated. "I have been expecting you for some time."

  Stone and Loughlin exchanged cautious glances.

  "We picked up an unexpected tail," Stone told him simply.

  A flicker of what might have been concern was visible upon the timeless face, then quickly vanished.

  "They traced you here? No matter. What is meant to come will come."

  An Khom turned away and led them through a doorway—to the left, as Stone had remembered. Once beyond it, they were in a sort of mini-warehouse that abutted on the alley where their car was parked with Hog on guard.

  A glance around the place did not reveal their shipment, but Stone waited, biding his time until the old man found a seat behind the desk that seemed to be the only furniture.

  "You have the things I ordered?" he inquired at last.

  "Of course. CAR-15 assault carbines. One thousand rounds of ammunition each, in magazines. The various grenades: concussion, thermite, fragmentation."

  "What about the plastic?" Loughlin asked. He was the powder man, the team's explosives expert, and he never liked to travel far without the tools of his trade at hand.

  An Khom seemed amused by the Brits impatience.

  "Certainly," he answered. "As ordered. Fifty pounds of C-4, strictly military grade. I also have the timers, fuses, detonators—everything you need."

  "I'm counting on it," Stone informed him, and the soldier's tone made it clear that everything had better be secure, in working order, on delivery.

  "As for the matter of my payment—"

  Stone thrust a hand into the inside pocket of his coat, withdrew a wad of bills, and started peeling off the large ones, counting silently. He handed them across, and watched as An Khom started riffling through them, doing a fast count of his own. "Fifty thousand bahts, as agreed," Stone told him, knowing that the little gnome would count it anyway.

  It was a little over two thousand dollars, American, and Stone counted himself fortunate at that. Some dealers in the area might have asked twice as much for the shipment he required, but prior dealings with An Khom had taught the soldier how to bargain with him, talk him down until the margin of profit was reduced to a manageable two or three hundred percent.

  The Asian finished his count and pocketed the money with a narrow smile, devoid of warmth.

  "Perfect. A glass of wine to consummate the bargain?" Stone shook his head. It was his turn to be impatient now.

  "No time." He glanced around the obviously empty room. "You have the shipment here?"

  An Khom shook his head, a curt negative.

  "This is my business office, nothing more. As you have amply demonstrated, it is not secure."

  "Where, then?"

  "I will take you there, but first it will be necessary for you to divest yourself of shadows."

  Loughlin looked confused.

  "What's that?"

  "We've got to clip the tail," Stone translated for him. The Brit smiled.

  Stone knew the look, the eagerness for combat, and he frowned.

  "Nothing permanent, unless they force it."

  Now Loughlin looked a fraction disappointed. "Very well. I'll only ding them up a little."

  "Right."

  "When you are finished, we can start," the Asian said, helping himself to a glass of the amber wine without rising from behind his desk.

  And so they had to clip the tail. All right. But first they had to find the men who were pursuing them. If the trackers had been sticking close, there was no problem. But if they had broken off upon identifying their location, it might be impossible to trace them now.

  Either way, they had to make the effort, clean their skirts before they asked the Asian weapons dealer to reveal his hiding place.

  Stone and his companion left the office, doubling back along their tracks. There was no need for conversation, and they moved along in silence toward the beaded curtain, which rustled like an artificial waterfall.

  And Stone was instantly alert to danger.

  Several moments had elapsed since they met An Khom. Time enough, and more, for the strings of beads to come to rest, stop jostling one another. They were moving now, and that could only mean that they had been disturbed.

  A draft, perhaps—or else a human hand, pushing back the strands to take a look inside.

  Stone was counting on the latter option as he eased the black Beretta from its armpit holster, slipped the safety lever off and into firing mode. Beside him, Loughlin tensed but made no move to draw a weapon of his own.

  They slipped through the curtain one at a time, merging with the partial darkness of the temple room. They crouched beside the altar, sheltered from the candles by a little overhang, trying not to breathe the stifling incense smoke any more than was absolutely necessary.

  "Company?" the Brit whispered, his voice almost inaudible though inches from Stone's ear.

  Stone shrugged, scarcely moving with the gesture, and his eyes were raking the rows of wooden benches, seeking any kind of movement that might give away the presence of an enemy.

  One minute, two . . . and he was sweating, from the musty heat inside the room and from the tension mounting up inside him. He could feel the old battle-eagerness himself, now, in the tingling of his spine, the sudden tightness of his testicles, and he was ready.

  Ready to fight.

  Ready to kill, if it came to that.

  Another moment, and he had his target. Dark, and barely visible above the back of a bench three rows from the rear.

  A human shape was rising from a crouch, inching along the row and toward the center aisle. From there, it would be twenty feet to freedom and the street—if he could make it.

  "There?"

  Stone pointed, hissing out the warning, but Loughlin already had the opposition spotted in the semidarkness. He was moving now, swift and catlike on the balls of his feet, edging away from the altar.

  When he made the break, he moved like lightning, and the opposition never really had a chance to see him coming. Downrange, the figure had risen to a stooping crouch, gaining the aisle, already swiveling toward the inviting safety of the exit. Loughlin covered the thirty feet in seconds flat, launching himself into a flying tackle when he was but halfway to the human target.

  And he scored, his shoulder driving hard against the small of the creeper's back, punching the wind out of him as it drove him to the floor with a startled little cry.

  At once, a second figure vaulted up and out of the pew behind his comrade and the Brit, pivoting to bring a weapon up and onto target. He was aiming straight at Loughlin, lining up the shot, and he would put a bullet through the warrior's bobbing skull, unless—

  On an impulse, Stone restrained the killer urge without sacrificing speed or accuracy. The black Beretta was already climbing, swinging onto target by the time he recognized his good friend's danger, and the last adjustment took only a heartbeat to realize.

  He stroked the trigger once, again, and two hot Parabellum stingers closed the gap, slamming into the wooden pew mere inches from his human target. They exploded into shards of wood and copper jacketing, a sudden storm directly in the hostile gunner's face, which spoiled his aim and sent his own revolver bullet whining into empty darkness.

  The opposition wasn't waiting for a second chance. With a survivor's instinct, he abandoned his companion to whatever fate awaited him and vaulted up and away from there, hurdling the bench and diving for the doorway on his own. He fanned a backward shot in Stone's direction, but his haste and lack of time to aim deprived him of a killing shot. A foot to Stone's left, a candleholder toppled, spinning from the bullet's impact.<
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  Stone was after him before the gunshot's echoes died away inside the temple. Sprinting down the aisle, he leaped across the struggling forms of Loughlin and his captive, heard the panting, cursing voices mingled into one as the men grappled in the darkness.

  There was nothing he could do at present; Loughlin would secure his man, or lose him—but the second tail was definitely freedom-bound unless Stone could overtake him on the street and bring him down.

  It would be touchy, seeking out a faceless stranger in the city, trying to secure him without attracting the attention of police—but Stone would have to try.

  He gained the sidewalk just in time to see his adversary disappearing down the alley they had used to reach the main pagoda entrance. The race was still ahead of him, and he could not begin to see the finish line from where he stood.

  Mark Stone put everything he had into that race, pounding off the yards of pavement like a young Olympic aspirant, aware that everything was riding on the outcome of his run. If he should miss his chance, allow the tail to slip away, would An Khom exercise his rights and refuse to make delivery? If delivery was even delayed, their plan was jeopardized, perhaps fatally. Time was of the essence now to all concerned, and if the dominoes were falling prematurely, it could be the end for all of them.

  Most especially for Colonel Alex Bradford.

  If he was alive.

  Stone meant to find the answer for himself, and that meant taking one step at a time. This step, right now.

  He was a dozen yards behind the other runner when they reached the second turn—and then, incredibly, Stone's quarry was turning left, in the direction of their car, and the soldier felt a sudden surge of hope.

  Hog Wiley was there, and he was on his station. When the runner made the corner, pounding down the alley, Hog became curious. When Stone appeared in hot pursuit, the curiosity gave way to action, and the bearded giant moved with speed and grace deceptive for a person of his size. He was out of the car, vaulting across the still-warm hood and taking up his place across the runner's path before a conscious plan had time to form.