The Death Dealer

by Nick Carter

  Nick needed no further encouragement. Another ghost had risen to join him. He threw himself onto his belly and snaked his way down the mountainside, aiming at a thick stand of granite, one of the several outcroppings of rock that scarred the terrain. He chewed on the reality of what was occurring below, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth. Another network too porous and leaky to survive; another defection threatened by betrayal.

  The image of the boy he had deserted so many years before at the Berlin Wall filled his brain. There would be no repeats, no reruns. Too many possibilities were riding in that minibus.

  He reached the stone face, laying his Skorpion at the bottom, and carefully eased himself up the rocky spine. Slowly he peered over the summit, availing himself of the improved perspective.

  Below, the column leader was distributing his charges, blanketing the area at the trail's end. Ten of the soldiers took their orders and then raced off to another stone facade on the left. Another ten shot off to the right, crossing the trail and setting up crossfire positions from a stand of spruce trees. The leader and one remaining man waited until everyone was planted before turning and striding up the hillside.

  Another ghost had risen. The approaching soldier labored up the incline, a portable rocket launcher seesawing over his shoulder. In his other hand, a box of rockets. It was obvious that prisoners were not part of the game plan. The two continued on, finally halting behind the cover of an outsized boulder. Once in place, preparations moved swiftly. The launcher came to rest on its stony base, the box of rockets opened for the coming slaughter.

  A quick glance down the road gave Nick his time frame. What had been a distant aura of headlights was now an approaching glow. There were maybe three minutes left before the vehicle would screech to a halt, smack in the middle of ground zero. It was not a lot of time, but it was all Nick had.

  He gave the terrain a quick reading. Nature was on his side. The group to the left had the better cover, but by far the less secure position. Behind them, the mountain face took a sharp rise, culminating in a broad shelf of exposed granite that gave every appearance of being in the final stages of defeat against the winter frosts and weathering. A note of hope sounded in Nick's not-too-optimistic chest.

  He knew, from the moment he saw it, that the rocket launcher would be his first goal. This was not the Berlin Wall; mountains held no fear of breaching. The charges in the box would be full — and deadly. But mountains could be altered. With enough coaxing, the rock face might be persuaded to release its grip. If that were so, the men stationed beneath stood little chance of surviving the results.

  Nick then turned to his right, studying the possibilities at the forest's edge. The men there were in a slightly better position. Although more exposed from Nick's angle, they were much more scattered, and harder to eliminate as a body. The best bet was still the rocket launcher. If he could pound a few of the tree bases, concentrating his fire in the center of their position, he might be lucky enough to claim a few of the enemy in the resultant collapse of timber.

  If not, it would still serve as a diversion, and a potent threat to men expecting little resistance. If any of them were prone to panic, they might just flush themselves out into the open. From there, the Skorpion would do the work. It wasn't foolproof, but it would have to do on short notice.

  Nick swiveled and slid down the stone perch, his feet touching silently on the ground. He lifted the Skorpion, throwing it over his head and cinching the strap tight against his body. He took a few precious seconds to regulate his breathing — deep, calming breaths of air that quieted his nerves and sharpened his concentration. The time for determinations was over. The commitment was made. That left only the doing. The machine had taken over. Nick slipped from the shadow of the rock and started his trek down the hill.

  Time forced him to move more quickly and more openly than desired, but the fog proved to be a salvation — the fog and the almost hypnotic concentration of the Czech soldiers on the approaching lights. Nick zigzagged his way from tree to tree, angling toward the two men below, his feet gliding quietly across the soft carpet of grass.

  As he went, he gave the required twists of the wrist necessary to release Hugo from his chamois perch against his forearm. The pencil-thin stiletto slipped silently into his hand, its blade cupped gently in the palm to keep even the faintest hint of light from glinting out a warning.

  Nick came to a hah about ten meters from the waiting leader and his deadly playmate. The trip, from this point on, would have to be far more cautious if suspicions were not to be aroused. The remaining distance offered no cover. Nick once more slipped to his belly, slithering his way forward with infinite patience.

  He was aided in his efforts by the continuous drone of the leader's voice as he commented on the vehicle's approach on a walkie-talkie. The man stood peering over the fronting boulder while his crony remained hunched behind, his fingers toying nervously with the rocket launcher.

  Nick crawled to within a foot of the stooped figure and waited for the next outburst of communication. It came within seconds. Nick moved. His hand clamped across the kneeling man's mouth while Hugo explored the terrain of his throat. Steel skating on butter. The chatter generated by the leader's mounting excitement was more than ample cover for the thin whistle of air that accompanied the man's death.

  Slowly Nick laid the body on the ground, and again he waited; this time for the leader to hit a natural stopping point in his reporting. It would not do to have him cut off in the middle of his discourse.

  From below came the chugging sounds of the minibus as the Czech called out his final commands and clicked the radio into silence. Then, with all the panache of martinets everywhere, he thrust the object blindly behind him, waiting for his comrade to dutifully remove it from his hands. Nick obliged him, tossing it off to one side.

  His eyes still intent on the scene below, the hand remained outstretched, fingers wiggling impatiently. It was obvious to Nick that the leader wanted the privilege of demolishing the dissidents himself — a gold star for his record, a good deed to increase his standing with his Soviet superiors. It was a hopeful sign. It meant the shooting would not commence below until the leader had had his stab at glory.

  This, Nick could not oblige. Hugo darted like a needle, entering the man's hand from the back, lifting out through the palm, and then sliding back through again. The leader's shoulder gave a wincing leap, and his hand flew away to hover before disbelieving eyes. When the head turned, astonishment and hate were waging pitched battle for control of the man's facial muscles. Both were equally defeated when the soldier realized his dilemma. It was not some wicked conscript who faced him now; it was Nick Carter — Nick and Hugo. And although he would never comprehend the who or why of it all, he could recognize death when he faced it.

  And death came swiftly. With no more than a sideways flick of the wrist, Nick sent Hugo darting through the air. The stiletto whistled faintly before burying itself in the man's right eye. There was a gasp and an instant of jerking chaos as the blade lodged itself in the man's brain. But this passed quickly. What remained was a useless collection of flesh that toppled forward, its face slamming the ground with a savage finality.

  Nick quickly rolled the man over and retrieved Hugo from its human sheath. He neatly cleaned the blade and tucked it back into its nest. Then he stood, replacing the commander at his post, and took in the scene below.

  The minibus was coasting to a halt at the trail's end. its headlights blinking out the preordained coding of arrival. In his mind's ear, Nick could hear the responding click of gun chambers from the flanking troops.

  Now was the time to test out strategies. Nick reached down and hoisted the box of rockets, parking it on the ledge to his left. He then grabbed the launcher, laying it over the stone like some fossilized tripod. He grabbed one of the rockets and slipped it in the back, his eye coming quickly down to the sight. He was greeted by the sepia shading of infrared technology. He allowed himself
the barest twist of a grateful smile as he settled the crossed hairs on the clinging patch of granite to his left.

  He fired.

  There was a muted pop and the familiar hiss as the launcher bucked against his shoulder. The rocket streaked away, leaving behind its own thick fog of cordite. It trailed off into the distance, a streamer of light behind, as it sought out its target.

  Then came the fireworks.

  The rocket impacted itself against the stone, its exploding roar raping the stillness of the night. Even before it did, Nick was preparing the backup. His hand dove into the box, seeking out another missile, oblivious to the partition that divided the box in two. He popped the rocket into its silo, only marginally conscious of the small nipple of red that marked its tip. There was an instant of reaiming, this time his concentration on the stone face that shielded the soldiers. It would not do to have any of them go over the top.

  Nick fired again. Once more the production of man collided with the product of nature. Again there was an exploding roar, but this time it was accompanied by a blinding flash of orange-white light and a waterfall of fire that splattered across the stone, and then clung with a determination all its own. Nick could hardly believe the turn of luck.

  Napalm!

  Nick's head jerked over to inspect the box beside him. Twin compartments, twin alternatives of destruction. One side was neatly stacked with explosives. The other, identical, except for tiny markings of red. Without delay, Nick grabbed for one of the regular rockets. He loaded and fired, once more attacking the clinging stonework above the men. From behind him came the frantic crackling of the walkie-talkie — confused voices seeking clarification from their leader.

  The only answer that came was the sudden groaning of stone as the granite shelf gave up its struggle and parted from the mountain. There was a further shrieking as the rocks tumbled down, crumbling into smaller fragments, and finally slamming their way into the ridge that hid the Czech militia.

  Nick lowered the launcher and unshouldered his Skorpion, ready for any who might avoid the charge of falling rock. The echoing rumble of the landslide more than overwhelmed the cries of fear and dying from behind the cover. Two men managed to scurry up and over the crest, but their efforts only brought them lead instead of granite. Two quick blasts of the Skorpion sent them dropping into the fires that licked at their feet.

  By now, the flank on the right had managed to perceive that they were being opposed. There came a gradually committed shower of gunfire in Nick's direction, but not before he had managed to slide rockets, launcher, and self down behind the safety of the boulder.

  Nick dropped the Skorpion and readied himself for phase two of his plan. He picked out three of the specially marked charges and slipped the first one home. He dove to his right, clearing the boulder, his belly pounding the earth as he let the first rocket fly from ground level. He then rolled back, repeating the process to his left.

  Each time the returning gunfire spent itself on where he had been, not where he was. With each retreat came the hollow explosions of the rocket blasts, the shimmering halo of firelight, and the guttural moaning of timber as another tree would fragment and topple.

  For the final launch, Nick went back up top. firing his missile and delighting as the napalm sought out lumber and flesh like a hoard of glowing birds. He dropped the launcher and swept up the Skorpion again, slamming home a fresh clip in the process.

  The napalm was a blessing of the highest order. Those who were not caught by the fire itself were now lit up in the glowing conflagration, caught in the fog-piercing view of the stage lights. Nick opened fire, cutting them down one by one. Any who managed to avoid the hellfires were soon greeted by the deadly shower of brimstone.

  But that was the good news. The bad news was that the fires were also illuminating a different picture. Panic was not limited to the soldiers alone. The dissidents too were feeling the grip of hysteria. Rather than holding to the cover and safety of the minibus, they were bolting into the open. Seven stumbling refugees fleeing the rage of the battlefield.

  What was worse, they had determined Nick as their salvation and were rushing his position on the hillside, gradually working their way into the line of fire.

  Nick did his best to cry out through the sounds of battle, screaming for them to drop to the ground, but the voice just would not reach them. He watched with horror as one of their number collapsed.

  They were now fully in the line of fire, leaving Nick only one solution. Exposure. Reluctantly the agent yielded to the demands of the moment. Popping in a fresh clip, he clambered to the top of the boulder and stood to full height. He let loose a barrage of bullets that kicked up the pebbles at the fleeing feet.

  Having gotten their attention, he again screamed out his directive. "Drop, damn you! Hit the goddamn ground and stay there!"

  There was shock, but there was also response. They dropped to a man, leaving both Nick and the soldiers head on head. Nick refused to allow as much as a millisecond to pass before opening up. Dissident heads had barely dropped from sight when he let fire a shower of bullets that took two of the Czechs instantly. The third managed to carve his initials at Nick's feet, but that was the extent of it. Another Skorpion blast left him dancing backwards until he toppled.

  Nick dropped to his knee and swept the terrain, but there were no more challenging barrages. Instead, there was only the popping crackle of burning timber. He jumped from the boulder and ran down to his frightened flock.

  Slowly, they rose up, heads turning in disbelief at the carnage around them. And then the heads stopped, each in its turn, each noting the one of their number that did not rise. Nick could sense the mingled emotions of regret and relief that shuddered through them. He stopped himself at the fringe of their grief.

  "Who did we lose?" he asked.

  The answer was delivered sullenly, an anonymous voice from out of the pack. "Olek," was all that was said. It was tribute and last rite all rolled into one.

  Nick could sense the communal idea forming in the group, but it was his duty to nip it. "Sorry," he said, his voice even but firm. "No time for burials. The fireworks will invite examination. We've got ten kilometers to travel, and we'd better travel it fast."

  One by one they turned, their expressions at first reproachful. But just as quickly, each registered an understanding. Mercury was their leader and he knew what was best. Nick watched each of the faces, noting them, studying them, searching out the one that matched the photo in his mind.

  The first four faces were more or less what Nick had expected — older men, features lined from years of fighting the impossible. The fifth face carried with it some surprise. It was a woman's face, early into her thirties, but almost ravishing in its beauty. It was pale and high cheekboned, framed by raven black hair and punctuated by dark onyx eyes.

  Nick found himself riveted to the face, his attention only straying when a voice reached out to grab him. "So, Mercury, we meet once more. This time with happier results."

  Nick turned toward the voice and found himself as close to startled as he would ever be. Whatever changes he had imagined for the boy in his mind, he was not prepared for what reality provided him. The hair that had been sandy was now snow white, and the face that had once held such sparkle, now held only thick lines of contempt.

  But it was the eyes that Nick had not expected, dead, stony eyes with hints of gray around the whites — the eyes of a blind man. Nick watched with morbid fascination as the eyes peered lamely over his shoulder.

  "You are silent, my friend. You are no doubt marveling at the sincerity of the Dealer's promises. Grant a life, but make it a living hell. Take the eyes from the artist, and you own him. Is that not so?"

  Nick could not be certain that there was not a hint of recrimination in the voice. He answered it with measured care. "He'll pay, Stefan. I promised myself then, and I promise you now. He'll pay."

  There was the barest hint of a smile. His hand came up, in it a cane,
its handle an ornately carved fist. The handle came gently to rest on Nick's arm as the man spoke.

  That he will, my friend. That is a promise I make you. Hela!" The blind man called to the woman, waiting until he felt the touch of her arm on his own before continuing. "My wife will guide me. I believe we still have a journey ahead. I will not delay us with details — or infirmities. Lead on, my friend."

  "Let's move," Nick echoed, as he turned and marched the group toward Austria, and freedom.

  * * *

  The two men watched the tiny parade blend into the distant trees, safe behind the cover of the forest. Rankov lowered his binoculars and let them come to rest against his bulging belly. Next to him was the Czech officer, his own binoculars still surveying the damage below.

  "God in heaven," came the muttered comment.

  Rankov chuckled at the unconscious heresy. "Careful, comrade. Religion is the first sign of deteriorating values. I shall have to report you if you persist."

  But the jibe was lost in the survey of bodies and fires below. The glasses finally slipped from the man's eyes. "Twenty men — destroyed. By whom? By what?"

  Rankov shrugged. "By Mercury, as he was once called. By Nick Carter, if you prefer. No matter what name, the results are identical. Impressive, is it not?"

  The Czech only stared, his mind consumed by one thought. "Why?" he muttered. "Twenty men. For what?"

  Rankov laid a hamlike hand on the Czech's shoulder. "For the good of communism, comrade, for the salvation of the Eastern bloc, and for the Death Dealer. And, there are times when I am not at all certain which deserves the greater loyalty."

  The hand dropped and Rankov turned, plodding back toward the waiting car above them. The Czech followed, his mind still struggling over the waste below. It took a moment, but the Czech let his confusion and loss build into enough of a boil to give him the courage he needed. He gripped Rankov's suitcoat, turning the man from State Security to face him, and greeting his stare with defiance.