Sold for Slaughter

by Don Pendleton

  If it came to that.

  If he could not take them all together in a single sweep.

  Warrior Bolan melted into darkness, speeding toward a rendezvous with death along the waterfront.

  11

  Smiley Dublin checked her watch again and swore with feeling. Ten minutes down, and it felt like an hour. The walls of her sanctuary seemed to close around her, threatening her with claustrophobia.

  Waiting was a pain, no doubt about it. Smiley knew the Bolan plan, and had willingly agreed to let him take the point on this oe, but the case was hers, dammit. There were enough enemies to go around, and she did not want to be frozen out entirely. Not when she had come so far and risked so much.

  The Fed was all professional, tried and tested under fire. If Bolan expected her to step aside and take it easy while he fought her battles for her, he would have to think again. Bolan's life was interwoven with her life, his private war a logical extension of her own career at Sensitive Operations. When they met he was busy doing what the Feds had never found authority or courage to attempt: killing serpents, and scoring goals against the Mafia.

  Smiley remembered Vegas and her meeting with Bolan. He had been a fugitive, already working on the title of Most Wanted Man Alive, hunted by Brognola and the other federal guns who would ally themselves with him in later battles. They had shared the killing grounds, and she had learned a thing or two about survival on the way to final victory in the green felt jungle.

  There were other lessons in Hawaii, where a coalition of the Mafia and Chinese Communists were gathered for a ghoulish feast. They called the operation King Fire, and this time it was Smiley on the inside, challenging the savage coalition. Bolan had arrived as if by accident, following a game trail of his own. He had discovered Smiley — saved her bacon, if you got down to it — and together they had put the enemy down. King Fire had been consigned to hellfire.

  After Honolulu, they had shared a fleeting moment of togetherness, restoring and renewing each other in the wake of mortal combat. Smiley would have liked a replay very much indeed, but her mind was on the mission now, computing angles, opportunities.

  With Ben Battaglia, she had been inside the action. When she muffed it with her own overconfidence, the Executioner had pulled her out of yet another frying pan... Now she was stuck on the outside again, looking in. Bolan had the ball, and she would have to find a way to get it back.

  She recognized the soldier's absolute commitment to his war and admired him for it. Also, she felt a deep, abiding gratitude to Bolan for his understanding. He had never judged her for employing every trick and tool at her disposal to destroy the common enemy. To him, she was a fellow soldier and a valued ally — but, still, there was enough chivalry about the man that he endeavored to protect her from the heat, and that aroused a mixture of emotions in her.

  Smiley finished pacing as she made the only possible decision. In a battle situation, soldiers did not wait for opportunities to come along; they made their own.

  It was time for Smiley Dublin to start manufacturing some opportunities.

  From Bolan, she knew all about the Arab, Rani and his Club Grandee. It was a starting point, at least, and she would play it by ear from there. If she struck out at Rani's, she could always double back and wait for Bolan. If she scored...

  Moving quickly, inspired with energy and zeal, she began a rapid transformation. She changed her clothes, emerging with a "tourist look" — a little flashy and a little sexy, with a little conservatism sprinkled in. In her handbag, the compact Detonics .45 autoloader added weight and gave her a little extra confidence.

  If needed, the minicannon would provide the awesome stopping power of its full-sized predecessors; but the woman was not looking for a firefight. Penetration was the play, and softly. She was after information, leads, not open confrontation.

  The Phoenix safehouse was half a mile from Rani's turf inside the Casbah proper. Smiley flagged an ancient taxi at the curb and asked to be taken to the Club Grandee. The driver kept up a running monologue while weaving in and out of traffic, leaning on his horn at frequent intervals, berating other motorists and pedestrians in rapid gutter French. Smiley made the trip in silence, concentrating on her private thoughts.

  The Club Grandee was everything she had expected. Seedy and dilapidated, with a clutch of ragged drunkards loitering outside, it was the archetype of every Middle Eastern dive she had ever heard or read about.

  Smiley paid the driver and watched the taxi disappear. She was isolated, cut off behind the lines, but she kept her cool and confidence as she walked along the sidewalk, past a motley audience and through the entryway.

  Inside, the air was thick with smoke. Tiny tables ringed an elevated stage where a hired dancer clad in harem garb was going through her paces, undulating rhythmically to flute and sitar. The patrons were predominantly male, though Smiley spotted several women in the crowd.

  Smiley made her way across the packed floor, winding among the tables. Fast, groping hands scuttled out to brush against her thighs and buttocks as she passed. By the time she had run the gauntlet and found an empty bar stool, she craved a long hot shower.

  Behind the bar, a very tall man with a jagged scar across his cheek was sliding over to take her order. His eyes devoured her, lingering on her breasts, and Smiley felt involuntary color rising in her cheeks. Determined not to let it show, she leaned toward him and raised her voice to make it heard above the music.

  "Hi. You Rani?"

  "Rani's gone. Drink?"

  "I really need to see your boss."

  Scar tissue crinkled as the Tuareg frowned. "Gone."

  "Well, then, I'll have a glass of wine... and wait."

  The shrug was almost too casual. Scarface moved away from her along the bar and returned a moment later with a brimming glass of wine. Smiley paid him, took a sip, and made a sour face at his retreating back. The wine was sickly sweet, and it left an oily feeling in her mouth. She wondered if the glasses were ever washed.

  Killing time, she swiveled on her stool to watch the dancer. Young and shapely, she was trying to inject a semblance of emotion into what was obviously a tedious routine. Every dip and turn was well rehearsed, almost mechanical, and Smiley half expected her to yawn at any moment. The face was that of someone who has seen and heard it all before.

  Droning, tinny music and the smoky atmosphere were having their effect on Smiley. Watching as the dancer spun in front of her, she felt a creeping dizziness invade her body. She took another swallow of her wine and found the taste remarkably improved.

  Unexpectedly, the lanky Tuareg was beside her, leaning close. Rancid breath enveloped her as he began to speak.

  "You come with me."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Rani say you come."

  Smiley felt a quickening of the pulse. She drained her glass and followed him along the bar on shaky legs. For a single second, the room appeared to tilt, and she braced herself against the wine's surprising kick. She cursed herself for ordering the drink and bit her lower lip, welcoming the pain that briefly cleared her head.

  The Tuareg led her through a beaded curtain, then down a narrow, grimy corridor illuminated by weak bulbs at either end. Trailing him, she slipped a hand inside her shoulder bag and found the small Detonics .45. She wrapped her fist around its reassuring form.

  Smiley did not intend to let herself be taken by surprise.

  At the end of the corridor, her guide opened a wooden door and stood aside to let her pass. She edged past him, had the time to register a room beyond the door, then the Tuareg struck her with an open palm between the shoulder blades, propelling her across the little office.

  Smiley stumbled, gasping, momentarily out of breath. She caught her balance and spun around to face her enemy. Her ears were ringing, and her vision was blurred; she recognized the drug's effects and again cursed her carelessness.

  She had let her guard down momentarily, left herself wide open, and now she was payi
ng for it.

  Smiley ripped the automatic from her purse and thrust it toward her lumbering attacker. He was on top of her before she could release the safety catch; she squeezed the trigger ineffectually. The Tuareg swatted it away, a numbing blow that left her hand and forearm tingling. She heard the pistol clatter onto tile. There was no chance of recovering it in time.

  The Tuareg was boring in relentlessly, blocking the knee she aimed at his groin, delivering a slashing backhand blow across her face. Blinding pain exploded in her skull, and Smiley lost her balance, sprawling onto the floor. She tried to wriggle out of reach, but he was after her at once, grappling with her, pinning both her arms against her sides.

  She tried the knee again, connected with his ribs and heard the breath rush out of him. He cursed in Arabic, and then a huge fist impacted on her cheek with savage force.

  Smiley collapsed, surrendering to the pain, her mind a jumble of disjointed sights and sounds. Above her, the bartender's face was badly out of focus, divided by a heartless smile. She felt his hands upon her, and she tried to struggle. She could not move.

  He frisked her thoroughly for other weapons, callused fingers probing every part of her, lingering here and there. Revulsion mingled with pain, but there was no escape. Another moment, and the Tuareg hauled her to her feet, lifted her without apparent effort, folded her across his shoulder in a fireman's carry.

  Thus inverted, fading in and out of consciousness, Smiley was borne across the office. At the far wall, her captor tripped a hidden switch and waited while a massive cabinet revolved on its hidden axis. A wave of musty air invited them inside the tunnel.

  Smiley had a sick sensation of descending into hell. The man-made cavern's claustrophobic atmosphere was dank and foul, heavy with the smell of rot and rodents. As the Tuareg carried her along through darkness, she could hear the chattering of startled rats, the scrabble of their claws on hard-packed soil. She felt the contents of her stomach rolling, rising, and then the strangling darkness swallowed her alive.

  12

  Mack Bolan huddled in the shadow of an empty warehouse and scrutinized the Liberté. Fifty yards away, the freighter rode a gentle swell, her barnacle-encrusted hull grating against the pier.

  Moonlight bathed the waterfront. Centuries of lovers might have found the setting romantic, but Phoenix saw it all in tactical relation to his mission. Moonlight was treacherous, a beacon to expose his presence.

  The Liberté was an aging tramp. The ship showed her years like an ancient whore who lacked the energy to paint her face. Constructed in the wake of global war, she must have passed through many hands; the new Liberian registry concealed her current ownership.

  But Bolan had no interest in the freighter's pedigree. He already knew enough to condemn her. But there was a job to do, precautions to be taken before he brought the curtain down.

  The vessel was a slaver, and he did not ignore the irony of her name. Crouching in the darkness, he wondered how much human cargo she had carried, how many weapons and narcotics shipments.

  Too damn many, he thought.

  Bolan had expected more activity around the ship, and he was on alert, suspicious of the brooding silence. On the freighter's bridge, a light was visible, and he picked out sporadic movement on the decks, but there was nothing of the bustle that precedes a sailing. If the Liberté was outward bound tonight, she hid it well.

  He considered whether Rani might have set him up, and just as quickly abandoned the thought. The Arab had been terrified, dealing for his life. Bolan did not read him as a man adept at fabricating stories under stress. He was tough and sharp enough when he was in control, but when a gun was pointed at his head...

  Bolan knew he would have to find his answers on the Liberté, nowhere else.

  And his biggest problem was finding a way on board without alerting anxious sentries.

  The gangplank was still in place, apparently unguarded, but the man in black was not about to risk an entry by the front door. There were other ways to skin the viper, and Bolan had his angles calculated long before he gave up the safety of the shadows for open ground.

  The soldier made it to the ship in a sprint, crossing forty yards of asphalt and ten yards of weathered planking in a little less than seven seconds. Deeper shadows welcomed him along the pier, and he used another moment to let his pulse and respiration stabilize before proceeding with his penetration.

  If there were sentries waiting topside, they would be watching for intruders on the gangplank. Bolan opted for the berthing hawser and a scramble to the fantail, twenty feet above his head. It was a risk, of course, but the alternative was almost certain death.

  With the Uzi slung across his shoulder, Bolan wriggled up the mooring line hand over hand, working cautiously around the ratcatchers strung a dozen feet apart. He reached the hawse-hole, got a leg up and vaulted lightly over the rusty railing to the afterdeck.

  He was not alone.

  Bolan felt the danger before he knew its source. A lookout, revolver angled through his belt, was gaping in alarm. The guy was not expecting company, but he recovered quickly, clutching at his gun as he hit a fighting crouch. Professional, and almost fast enough to pull it off.

  Bolan never let him reach the weapon. As the nightfighter hit the deck, he had the silent-death Beretta in his fist. By the time he saw his adversary, Bolan's pistol had acquired the target, trigger finger already tightening into the squeeze.

  The weapon chugged, and a parabellum bone-crusher closed the gap between them, punching between the lookout's startled eyes, boring on to find the brain within. Lifeless fingers froze around the butt of the guard's revolver, and he toppled forward on his face, a scarecrow with the stuffing knocked out.

  Bolan sheathed his 93-R and moved to where the guy was sprawled across the deck. He carried the lookout to the railing, and he slid the limp body over into darkness, waiting for the splash of impact. When he was alone, the warrior moved on in search of answers to many deadly questions.

  A circuit of the upper decks, avoiding seamen when they crossed his path, showed him nothing out of the ordinary for a ship in port. Probing farther, Bolan found an open hatch. He scrambled down the metal stairway into darkness, finding his way with a pencil flash. He palmed the Beretta, ready to respond to any challenge.

  There was nothing in the cabins, nothing in the cargo hold.

  Nothing.

  The penetration was a washout.

  Bolan put his mind to work on possibilities, alternatives. The tavern keeper could have lied to him, of course, but that still seemed unlikely. It was also improbable that Rani would mistake the ship's departure time. Only one logical alternative remained: the shipment had been scheduled as described, and then postponed or cancelled without Rani's knowledge.

  That left the operation pending, and the human cargo still in jeopardy. Bolan would have to find them and release them from their bondage. If the answers he sought were on the Liberté, he would find them on the bridge, but first there were some doomsday preparations to be made.

  Bolan retraced his steps, pausing at strategic points along the way to mold plastic charges to the hull. From an O.D. canvas pouch, he drew the radio-remote detonators, wedging them in place by feel, not relying on the flash.

  A signal from the tiny detonator box attached to Bolan's web belt would trigger all the charges, simultaneously or in any sequence he chose. He had come to sink a slaver, and that he would do — but the soldier's job was not completed. There was one more stop to make before he started burning bridges.

  Colonel Phoenix had a date with the captain of the Liberté. And it was time to pull some rank in old Algiers.

  He gained the deck and moved along through mottled moonlight toward the wheelhouse. Twice he had to pause and seek the shelter of a shadowed doorway, keeping out of sight as crewmen went about their jobs. No one marked his passage toward the stairs.

  Bolan took the steps two at a time, approaching from the blind side of anybody on the bri
dge, and in another moment he was with them, uninvited Death appearing at the captain's table.

  There were two men in the wheelhouse, and Bolan sized them up at once. He marked the older one, a swarthy, balding man, as skipper of the Liberté. His young companion wore a uniform, and Bolan caught the telltale bulge of bolstered hardware underneath his arm.

  Phoenix stepped inside the wheelhouse and rapped the muzzle of his Beretta against the door to announce himself. Two startled faces turned to gape at him, the older man going pale, the younger going mean.

  And in the different reactions, Bolan read their fates, as clearly as a surgeon reads his patient's vital signs. The younger officer was eager for a fight, and in his confidence he never stopped to weigh the odds against him. His hand was streaking for the hidden gun before his captain could restrain him.

  Bolan had the slim Beretta set for automatic fire. He nudged the trigger, let a rapid three-round burst declare his purpose. Parabellum manglers drilled precisely on the mark, punching him backward and across the captain's chart table. Half a dozen maps were taken with him to the floor, and those he left behind were stained with seeping blood.

  He had the captain's full attention now. The guy was standing, studying the scene of carnage with disbelieving eyes — gaping first at Bolan and his smoking weapon, then at his riddled mate, then back to the black-clad messenger of death.

  "English?" Bolan snapped.

  The captain nodded, a jerky motion.

  "You booked a shipment for tonight. I'm here to take delivery."

  The skipper hesitated, a curtain falling into place behind the nervous eyes. "No shipment here. All empty."

  Bolan closed the gap between them, jammed the muzzle of his silencer against a flabby cheek. The metal was still warm from firing, and the cheek began to twitch, but its owner did not dare pull away.

  "One last time," the soldier growled, "I'm looking for your cargo."

  Something snapped inside the pudgy sailor. "Everything is gone, effendi. All the women..."