Executioner 054 - Mountain Rampage

by Pendleton, Don

  Sure, it was a good plan. It was excellent. Only one thing was wrong with it. And that thing now stalked him, with the grace and agility of a jungle cat.

  Bolan's target was well trained. What he lacked was the ability to think on his own, to analyze a field situation and improvise if necessary. The big guy closed to within ten yards, and the man he stalked never turned once to glance back over his shoulder.

  The big AutoMag with its silver barrel was ready and anxious to thunder death. Then Bolan spoke.

  "Twitch once and you die."

  The words broke the mountain stillness. For a dozen heartbeats the guy remained immobile.

  Gently, as though expecting a burst of whining slugs to rip into his broad back, the man redistributed his weight from one leg to another.

  "Drop the gun and turn around slowly," Bolan ordered. His voice had taken on an edge that could cut glass.

  The carbine slipped from reluctant fingers. "I'm turning around now. Don't shoot."

  Bolan detected a trace of an accent in the man's perfectly enunciated words. European. Perhaps German.

  The two big men faced each other. Broader than Bolan, lacking two inches in height, the spit-and-polish patrol member let his eyes travel the length of the blacksuited man before coming to rest on the big .44 that was trained on his thick chest.

  "The others all dead?" He knew the answer before framing the question.

  Bolan nodded.

  "You killed all four that just came up?" Bolan's expression did nothing to counter the bleak cold of his icy eyes.

  His captive shrugged. An insincere smile softened the lines of his face, relaxed his heavy jaw. He spread both thick-fingered hands in a gesture of defeat. When his palms returned inward, Bolan noted the man's right hand was fractionally nearer the .357 Combat Magnum that hung from his belt.

  "Why are men like you hired to patrol a rest home?"

  "People with money regard their privacy highly."

  "Where is your home in Germany?"

  There was a pause. The guy was clearly startled. Then he relaxed.

  "Stuttgart." His smile had become a sneer.

  "Why would you come all the way from West Germany to help patrol a rest home?"

  "Old people need peace and security in which to relax and be restored to health," the guy quoted like a parrot.

  "Why are there so many coyotes here suddenly? What brings them?"

  "Dogs. The patients have lots of dogs. Not coyotes."

  "Why don't you and I just march down there and look around? I'll let you lead the way in case my reception isn't a warm one."

  The guy's eyes lifted from Bolan and focused on a point just over his left shoulder.

  "See, I told you they were just dogs. Here come some now." His left hand rose with the thick index finger extended.

  Fear of being marched captive into the compound outweighed the man's fear of the black-clad warrior and his big .44 AutoMag. The man's timing was excellent. As he lifted his left arm, he dropped his right hand onto the butt of the .357. Had Bolan turned his head as the guard hoped, the ruse would have succeeded. The only flaw in the plan was the combat quality of Mack Bolan.

  Bolan's 240-grain slammer tore through the center of the guy's throat. It ripped its way out the back of the broad neck carrying chunks of vertebrae. As the thick body began to sag, the guy's large head lolled grotesquely onto one shoulder.

  The Executioner gave no further attention to the hired gun whose wound stained the green grass beneath him.

  After retrieving the M-1 and recharging both it and Big Thunder, Bolan left the open area and faded into the timbered slopes above.

  Time to survey the compound.

  The intel fed from Stony Man Farm was right on target. A group of armed unknowns had set up shop in Paradise Valley. And an organization capable of fielding hardguys like those whose bodies littered the mountain landscape had to have money and a need for absolute security. None of this was good for America's health.

  Bolan eyed the position of the sun, calculated the effect of the high mountains in terms of early nightfall, then blended into the tree-cast shadows. His analysis of the area had to be right the first time. Once the big guy made his final decision, there could be no turning back.

  4

  KURT HOLBEIN SIPPED the strong black coffee and licked his lips to savor the beverage. He leaned back in his chair and propped his boots comfortably on top of the small desk that filled the center portion of the cubicle he called his office.

  Not at all what the tall man desired, but it beat moving from place to place, hiding in attics or damp, darkened basements for days on end. Again he touched the cup to his lips. Leadership had its rewards, and no one deserved such rewards more than Kurt Holbein.

  Outside, the clear Colorado mountain air bathed the compound as the sun shone down from a cloudless sky. Inside, the temperature remained constant. Due to the building's careful construction, even the roar of the diesel generator was nothing more than a muted hum in the background.

  Kurt Holbein had only one regret, that he had not seen much of the United States, the nation he was pledged to destroy.

  He glanced at the heavy gold watch that adorned his right wrist.

  Damn the woman. What was taking her so long? If she was not the most brilliant medical specialist in the movement, her lack of speed would not be tolerated. She should have phoned him twenty minutes ago.

  He reached for the phone, then withdrew his hand, settling instead for the coffee cup. He would give her another fifteen minutes. Then, if she had not called, Kurt would walk the length of the long corridor and visit the bitch in her laboratory.

  Bitch. He thought the single word without anger. Kurt Holbein was past being angry with Lavinia Vitalli. Impatient, yes. Angry, no.

  Her work was brilliant, the product of a beautifully warped and twisted mind. That a savage mind such as hers could be harbored in a flawless body did not strike him as out of the ordinary. The minds of all those who rose to the ranks of leadership or specialty in the organization were bent in some manner. It was a group in which deviation was the norm.

  As project director, Kurt exercised power even beyond the authority he held over the hundred or so occupants of the compound dubbed Paradise Valley. Although this was just the beginning, Lavinia's work was almost completed. Several of the formulas she developed and tested were ready for wider field testing. He allowed himself a grin of anticipation at the thought.

  Drop a vial into the water supply of a small town and sit back to enjoy the results. Formula Hyperactivity 27 (HA-27) was ready for extensive testing now. Tonight, when Kurt could catch the ear of the Great Man, Maurice LeValle, he would propose an immediate testing of HA-27.

  What a splendid concept. One part per ten million in a community's water, and all who drank the liquid would become possessed by a restlessness that could not be denied. Rapid movement of hands, arms, feet and legs would occur within minutes after drinking the contaminated water. An irrepressible urge to move would become overpowering. The body would be constantly agitated.

  Double the concentration to two parts in ten million and the results were even more extreme. The victim, human or animal, had no choice but to submit to the demands transmitted by the central nervous system. With frenzied activity, running from place to place, the victim would bounce off fixed objects like a possessed billiard ball.

  For Holbein, the experimental subjects given HA-27 in the laboratory had afforded him considerable amusement. But it was nothing akin to the pleasure he would get when HA-27 was introduced into the domestic water supply of an American city.

  And after tonight's meeting, after LeValle arrived here by helicopter in the dead of night, perhaps Holbein might be able to persuade the Great Man to allow field testing even before the week's end.

  Again he sipped the dark brown liquid. Lavinia Vitalli was a genius. Her knowledge of chemicals and his own ability to launch terror strikes would link their names in history. So
on the kingdom of Kurt Holbein would extend far beyond the peaceful mountain valley and would encompass a continent. The thought brought him pleasurable calm.

  The phone at his elbow rang.

  "Yes."

  "I'm ready." The connection was broken the instant Lavinia uttered the two words.

  Holbein slowly cradled the receiver. Bitch.

  Rising with surprising grace, the project leader walked the length of the white corridor that linked his office with the laboratory where Lavinia Vitalli labored eighteen to twenty hours daily.

  Ah, yes, he thought, Lavinia will be successful with her new project too. HA-27's effects will be nothing compared to the drug now being perfected. With the development of her second experimental drug, the power of mind control would be his.

  Lavinia's second project would grant power far beyond that ever dreamed of by the world's most grasping dictators, power never even fractionally achieved by the most authoritarian governments the world had known.

  Kurt clenched his fists into tight knots.

  First, test HA-27 in the field. Then gradually use Lavinia's newest drug to control the minds of the people. His eyes glowed at the thought.

  A blank-eyed youth of fifteen or sixteen viewed Kurt without curiosity as the terrorist leader approached. Methodically the boy pushed the broom the length of the already spotless corridor. Yes, Lavinia's drugs worked. She could alter an individual's mind to the point at which he or she was receptive to any and all orders issued. That was the solid first step.

  But problems still existed. At first, death resulted within forty-eight hours of the mind-numbing injection. Once that obstacle was overcome, a second presented itself. A totally receptive mind was not capable of any self-direction. The youth sweeping the floor was a case in point. As long as he was told to sweep, and for as long as he lived, the boy swept, but only in the corridor where he was assigned. In order to have a second corridor cleaned, it was necessary to have a guard take him by the hand and move him to a second hall. Otherwise, he would continue indefinitely at the task assigned. But it was still a remarkable step forward. And Lavinia gave him every assurance that a mind subject to being successfully programmed was soon to become reality.

  The possibilities played in Kurt's inventive mind. An aerial mist sprayed from a low-flying plane or helicopter under cover of darkness onto agricultural lands . . .. Cattle would eat the corn, humans would eat the butchered beef. Thousands of people who ate the meat would no longer be their own masters.

  Smiling at his thoughts, Holbein entered Lavinia's workplace. As usual, the sight of her aroused him.

  Because she wore no bra, her taut nipples were clearly outlined under her smock. Her raven hair was cut short, forming a dark halo that shone brightly around the olive beauty of her face. She had a slender throat and high, full breasts. Her narrow waist flared to full and sensuous hips; she had long slim legs. Her body was as stunning as her mind.

  "The pair I injected yesterday died half an hour ago." She did not look up from her writing.

  Kurt ground his teeth in silent frustration. And with LeValle coming in less than a dozen hours! At least HA-27 was ready for demonstration.

  "What went wrong?" Holbein asked, fighting to keep his voice steady. Long ago he had learned not to shout or try to verbally bully the lovely woman. Once he had done that. Just once. That night Lavinia had taken him to her bed for the third time. She had treated him to a display of her physical abilities that had left him spent and gasping.

  Then she refused him for two months. Just as bad, she had refused to allow him to watch the results of the injections she administered. No fool, Kurt understood the message. Never again did he raise his voice to the lovely Lavinia.

  "I've made a change. Perhaps it will provide the reaction we desire. Have the retarded boy brought to me in an hour or so."

  The retarded boy—like the old man, and the wino who did not know where he was, and the arthritic woman from the nursing home, which had probably failed to report her disappearance for weeks or even months, and like the runaways and hitchhikers—was one of those whom Holbein's men had spirited away from society without their absence being felt.

  The tall, blond terrorist rubbed his hands in anticipation. Lavinia, shorter by half a foot, darker by centuries of breeding, noted the gesture and smiled inwardly. Kurt was such a simple man. One day she ought to allow him to sample the delights of HA-27 firsthand. But that little pleasure was in the future. For the present she needed him to deal with the administrative details while she put her mind solely to the task before her.

  Holbein spoke. "Herr LeValle will expect a demonstration of HA-27 tonight."

  "For that I plan to use the old woman who came in yesterday."

  "Splendid."

  "Or maybe the girl they call Kathy. She's younger, stronger, better able to demonstrate the full range of hyperactivity to Maurice." Lavinia knew full well Holbein's personal plans for the attractive teenaged girl.

  "I think the old woman would be better." His jaw was firm.

  "Perhaps. I may need the old one sooner, for a follow-up if the retarded boy fails to respond properly."

  He clenched his fists in frustration. The girl was his. Damn the problems. Never did they have enough subjects.

  Someone tapped lightly on the door. Lavinia called for identification.

  "Raul," said the guy as he entered. The block-headed Raul Hernandez, his eyes dark marbles and his facial features smooth, was head of camp security.

  "Patrol group three reported taking two prisoners earlier. When the patrol leader failed to report again at his assigned time a second patrol was sent out. Group six consisted of five members. It has not reported. We must assume both units are lost to us."

  As he delivered his report, his eyes unflinchingly met the gaze of the project leader. Being no fool, the security chief was taking the opportunity of shifting all blame onto the shoulders of the project director.

  "Eight men gone?"

  "Eight."

  "How many of the enemy are in the field?"

  Raul shrugged, his attitude suggesting that if he had such information, he would long since have shared it.

  "Do not send out more patrols. Were the two units fully capable?"

  "My men are always capable," Raul said.

  "Of course. That being the case we must assume superior numbers of well-trained attackers. Place your forces on red alert. No one is to leave the compound."

  "I've already done so."

  Kurt's breathing and heartbeat were wildly out of balance as he considered the possibilities. They were under siege. The only option open was to defend the compound. How many men opposed them? A dozen, a hundred? To his knowledge, Americans simply did not act in this aggressive fashion.

  So who was it out there?

  "We'll defend the compound," he said. "When the pilot contacts, have word relayed for him to come in real high and be careful of snipers."

  "Try to capture some of them alive," Lavinia said to Raul. "I can always use more subjects."

  HE LEFT WITHOUT LOOKING BACK. Had he been in the open, Raul would have spat out his disgust at them. Theirs was a sickness revolting to the security head.

  Veteran of eleven successful operations, including the assassination of a United States diplomat in Paris, Raul Hernandez felt soiled by his association with the pair.

  Unconscious of his own actions, Raul took a deep breath of the mountain air the minute he left the medical building. He held his lungs full until the feeling of having breathed putrid air had left. Then he exhaled forcefully. He scanned the forested mountain slopes that surrounded the fortified compound like a vast bowl of green.

  How many were out there? When would they attack? Was he in the scope of a sniper who was centering cross hairs on his chest? Raul gave himself a mental shake. He had orders to give and the defense of the compound to supervise. This was no time for fantasy or fear.

  Or maybe it was.

  5

&n
bsp; KEEPING WELL BACK in the trees where his black form blended with the shadows, Mack Bolan moved rapidly along the mountain's flank to a point where the compound below came into view, locating a jumble of rocks from which he could study the area without fear of being observed.

  With practiced hands he extracted his 10x50 Bausch & Lombs and began to scan the area, gathering on-site intelligence before the sun sank behind the crests of the 13,000- and 14,000-footers.

  Bolan could have superimposed his mental picture of the compound on the actual site and not been in error in any respect. This was a tribute to the high quality of the aerial photographs gathered by USAF jets as much as it was to the computerlike mind of the warrior. With grim satisfaction he noted various landmarks that had been fixed in his mind from his intense study of the recon photos. Everything was just as he envisioned it, from the original ranch structure to the newly built bunker-like buildings of cement block, to the eight-foot fence that formed the outer perimeter.

  Bolan noted that a third patrol unit had not been dispatched from the safety of the enclosure to search for the two that had failed to return. His lips twitched in a brief smile at the knowledge. Circle the wagons!

  That suited him fine. Let the hired guns sweat a bit while they awaited the attack they knew would come with the setting of the sun. He would not disappoint them in that respect, though his attack would not come in quite the form they anticipated.

  When Raul Hernandez crossed the open space between a building and his awaiting officers, Bolan spotted him at once. He identified Hernandez for what he was—a canny leader whose word was law. After mentally recording the man's description, Bolan turned his attention to the other activities inside the compound.