The punks had left a sentry at the alley's mouth so that they could deal with Rafferty in private. The guy was slender, hatchet-faced, one eyelid drooping where a knife or razor blade had severed muscles in some other confrontation. Both eyes were on Bolan as he approached the alleyway, the weasel's sensors picking up an urgent danger signal, urging him to cut and run.
He stood his ground, and Bolan gave him credit for remaining at his station. Not a word was spoken as the Executioner approached the alley's mouth; his opposition moved to intercept him silently, one hand tucked inside the pocket of his leather jacket, fishing for a weapon.
The soldier never gave him time to find it, lashing out with a surprise snap kick that took the sentry low and solid, crushing genitals between the boot and pubic bone. The weasel doubled over, gasping, both hands visible and reaching for his wounded privates as Bolan finished with a chop behind one ear. The lookout folded like a sack of dirty laundry, and the way was clear.
The soldier glanced back once in the direction of the lights and traffic, knowing this might be the last street he would ever see. He shrugged the morbid moment off and concentrated on his mission, merging with the darkness of the alleyway.
14
The sounds of thudding feet and fists were Bolan's guide until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Moving cautiously, in case the toughs had placed a backup sentry somewhere in the shadows, Bolan homed in on the spot where Rafferty or one of his assailants was receiving what sounded like a vicious beating. From the muffled curses and accompanying grunts of pain, he had no doubt that Sergeant Rafferty was on the receiving end of the punishment.
A naked bulb was mounted just above the exit of a pawnshop butting on the alley, and the toughs had brought their victim here to work him over, shielded from the street by garbage Dumpsters and a right-hand corner of the alleyway. Approaching as silently as possible, with gravel, broken glass and trash spread out beneath his feet, the warrior risked a glance around the corner prior to barging in.
The sergeant hadn't lost his fighting spirit yet, but stunning blows and too much beer robbed him of coordination. Bolan watched him try to throw a side kick at the tallest of his adversaries, but the punk stepped out of range, his three companions darting in like jackals from the flanks to strike at Rafferty with sticks and chains. A club glanced off the sergeant's skull, with other blows impacting on his back and shoulders, driving Rafferty to all fours amid the litter.
Something rolled beneath his heel, and Bolan stopped to heft the length of pipe. If used correctly, it could be a lethal weapon, and he needed every edge that he could get just now. The punks were occupied with Rafferty, too distracted with their captive gringo to be conscious of a shadow closing in on them. Incredibly, as Bolan fell among them, he achieved the victory of absolute surprise.
The nearest adversary had his back to Bolan, one boot raised, already lining up a solid kick at Rafferty. The force of Bolan's cudgel ramming home against his kidney brought the tough guy to his knees, a breathless gasp of pain escaping from his throat before the pipe made solid contact with his skull and squelched the sound.
The others spun to face him now, surprised to find another enemy among them but determined to proceed. They fanned out, circling Bolan, Rafferty forgotten for the moment as he lay amid the garbage, moaning. "You have made a bad mistake, señor," the battered barroom patron told him, smiling wickedly. "We still have business with this one."
"I'd say you're finished," Bolan countered, glancing at the fallen sergeant. "He looks worse than you do, right?"
"Ees not enough," the local told him, playing with the length of chain he held in both hands now. "You gringos need a lesson, eh? Find out that you do not own this country. You treat our men like peasants, and our women worse… like whores. This time, I think we make you pay."
The soldier sidestepped, edging outward from the grimy wall behind him, looking for some combat stretch. He took the precious time to cast another glance at Rafferty.
"He's paid already," Bolan told the spokesman for the gang. "I've got no quarrel with you."
"But I believe I have a quarrel with you," the leader of the toughs replied. "Quién sabe? Who knows? You all look alike to me."
The others brayed with laughter, the sound cut off with guillotine precision as they rushed at Bolan simultaneously, chain and bludgeons flailing. Bolan took the leader first, going low beneath the whistling flail of stainless-steel links as he brought up the length of pipe into crushing impact with his adversary's groin. The tough guy staggered, lost his balance and curled into a fetal posture on the filthy ground. The nearest of his comrades stumbled over him and fell, rebounding from the alley wall face first, an outstretched arm too late to save his nose and cheek from grating contact with the brickwork.
Bolan spun to face his third assailant just in time to take a jarring blow across one shoulder from the tall man's salvaged table leg. The Executioner ducked a second blow, his free hand lashing out to clip the brawler's chin and snap the man's head back sharply while the small end of his pipe made jarring impact just below the sternum, emptying his adversary's lungs. The guy was doubled over, gasping desperately for air, when Bolan whipped the pipe around and down against his unprotected skull with enough force to knock him out.
There were awkward stirrings in the scattered rubbish behind him. Bolan turned to find the other leather jacket on his feet, still daubing at the wet abrasion where his cheek had been sandpapered against the wall. His nose was bleeding heavily, the crimson streamers trailing from his chin. A spark of savage anger, verging on irrationality, was visible behind his eyes. "Está muerto," he declared, and spat dark blood at Bolan as he worked up nerve to make his move.
"Come on," the soldier taunted him. "We haven't got all night."
The punk snarled and came at Bolan in a rush, with no clear thought of strategy or timing. Bolan stood his ground until the final instant, feinting left to throw the human juggernaut off-balance, fading right before his adversary could correct, the backhanded swing already whistling toward impact with that snarling face.
The brawler's bloody nose and front teeth went together with an ugly crunching sound, his upper body frozen by the impact while his legs kept running, losing traction when the torso failed to follow. The adversary stretched out at Bolan's feet.
A scraping sound from Bolan's flank distracted him. The leader of the gang had struggled to his feet, still nursing wounded genitals and standing slightly knock-kneed, braced against the pawnshop's wall. He held a broken bottle by its neck, the jagged end extended like a stubby rapier toward the Executioner.
"It's over," Bolan told him simply. "Let it go."
His only answer was a ragged, wordless cry that carried him toward Bolan in a clumsy rush. The soldier could have stepped aside and let his adversary stumble into impact with the opposite wall, but now he stood his ground, the length of pipe gripped firmly in both hands. Enraged, his enemy thrust forward with the broken bottle, straining in his urgency to slice the soldier's flesh, and Bolan found his opening.
He raised the pipe and brought it whistling downward in a single, fluid motion, shattering the knuckles in his adversary's outstretched hand. Momentum kept the startled, gasping man in motion, and there wasn't even time for him to scream before the soldier caught his windpipe, pinched it off without apparent effort and lifted him completely off the ground. The length of pipe descended on his skull, and he was limp in Bolan's grasp before the warrior let him fall.
Beside a battered, leaky Dumpster, Rafferty was stirring fitfully, emerging from semiconsciousness. The sergeant's face was caked with blood and refuse from the alleyway, swollen out of shape, and his uniform was a grimy write-off. Bolan helped him to his feet, intent on getting out of there before a chance police patrol had time to spot the sentry's body on the sidewalk and decide to check it out. There would be questions when they reached the base, but that was one thing; spending time in a Honduran jail was something else entirely. The Execution
er had work to do, and whether Sergeant Rafferty was part of Bolan's mission or a cheap distraction, Bolan couldn't operate — couldn't protect himself — inside a cell.
"I know you." Rafferty could barely speak through cut and bloodied lips. His voice was distant, dry and strained.
"We'll talk about it later," Bolan told him, steering for the sidewalk with the sergeant's arm around his neck, supporting Rafferty until the disoriented noncom found his legs and started helping out. No sooner had they cleared the alley than an ancient taxi rumbled into view, the driver trolling apathetically for fares. He did a double take when Bolan flagged him, clearly tempted to abandon these bad-news GIs, but money talked, and he could charge them double for a run back to the U.S. military base.
They settled into the tattered seat, with Rafferty half turned to stare at Bolan through the eye that wasn't swollen shut. "Why did you do it, man?"
"Why not?"
"Don't get me wrong, okay? I'm frigging glad you butted in, but what I just can't figure out is why."
"Let's say I didn't like the odds."
"Okay. You recognize the leader of the pack back there?"
"I caught your floor show, yeah."
"You figured he'd be laying for me."
Bolan shrugged. "I figured it was time to get some air."
"I owe you one." He squinted at the ID plate on Bolan's khaki shirt. "Lambretta, right? I owe you one."
"Forget about it."
"No way, man. No way at all."
They finished the trip in silence, giving Bolan time to wonder what the duty officer might think of Rafferty's condition. Coming back to base in tatters was a damned sight better than returning under guard, but if the locals raised a beef about the action in the alley, it wouldn't take Sherlock Holmes to pin the rap on Rafferty. And if it came to that, the sentries would remember who the sergeant had been leaning on when he returned. It would be worth the risks if his mark was on the inside with McNerney's operation. But if Rafferty was clean… well, Bolan thought, it might work out to his advantage, anyway. The word would get around that he had helped a fellow soldier out of trouble with the locals. It couldn't hurt, assuming always that the renegades were shopping for replacements in the first place. If they were determined to proceed with what they had, then it would matter little if the sergeant was among their number or a simple drunk, attracting problems like a human magnet.
Bolan kept his fingers crossed as they approached the base. He had the cabbie pull up to the curb a block before they reached the gates, then pushed a handful of lempiras at the driver, letting Rafferty negotiate his exit for himself. The sergeant was regaining his strength, his swagger, but he would require a bath and change of uniform to really pull it off. At least he didn't need to lean on Bolan as they walked the final block together, moving slowly as the sergeant favored aching muscles, bruises hidden underneath his clothing.
"I hope you've got your story put together," Bolan muttered as they drew up to the gates. A solitary sentry had already seen them coming, taking up his place with automatic rifle held at port arms, ready to receive them.
"Never fear," the sergeant croaked. "I've got it covered." Lurching toward the gate, he raised one hand and called out to the ground, "Hey, Vince, you got a six-pack on you?"
Closer, Bolan recognized the sentry now. He was a crony of the sergeant's, name DiSalvo.
"Jesus, Raff, what happened, man? You look like shit."
"I feel like shit," the battered sergeant told him in reply. "You gonna let us in, or what?"
"You guys together?"
"For the moment," Bolan told him.
"Bet your ass we are," the sergeant answered, more emphatically. "They'd have me in a cell downtown, or in the cold room, if Lambretta hadn't pulled my chestnuts out."
"What happened?" Vince DiSalvo asked again.
"A little rumble with the locals," Bolan said.
"A little rumble! Listen to him, will ya? It was like the fuckin' Alamo, for crissakes."
"I've seen worse," the Executioner replied.
"I'll bet you have, ol' buddy. I'll just bet you have at that."
"You'd better shag ass back to quarters, man," DiSalvo cautioned Rafferty. "The DO gets a look at you, there won't be any way that I can cover for you."
"Never mind the fuckin' DO, Vince. You know we got this place sewed up."
"You're drunk, man. Better watch that mouth."
The sergeant stiffened, seemed about to answer back, then reconsidered, clamming up. DiSalvo passed them through the gate, and Bolan walked with Rafferty in the direction of the barracks that they shared. It wasn't much, but there was something in the tone that Rafferty had used and the reaction of DiSalvo to his words.
We got this place sewed up. A reference to their covert link with General McNerney? Indications of a wider plot? Or was it just cerveza talking, amplified by ego?
Bolan couldn't answer any of those questions yet, but he could watch and wait. Whatever the McNerney forces had in mind, they weren't going anywhere tonight. Tomorrow he just might have another shot at Rafferty, an opportunity to loosen up his tongue.
The barracks were in darkness as they entered, both men heading for the latrine and showers. Bone tired, Bolan knew a shower would relax him, help him sleep, and it would also flush the pungent odors of the alley from his pores. Inside the confines of the barracks, he could smell himself, and Rafferty was ten times worse. Unless the laundry could work miracles, the sergeant could forget about his uniform for good.
The two of them were stripping down for showers when another pair of soldiers entered the latrine. A glance was all it took for Bolan to identify them: Broderick and Steiner, two more buddies of DiSalvo and the sergeant.
"What the hell did you buy into?" Steiner asked.
"A little disagreement with the local greaseballs, eh, Lambretta?"
Broderick glanced at Bolan, frank suspicion in his eyes. "You in on this?"
"I caught the last act," Bolan told him.
"Shit. He saved my bacon," Rafferty declared. "Those bastards would have had my ass fileted if this boy hadn't come along."
"You get their names, Raff? Faces? We can go in town tomorrow and mop 'em up," Broderick offered.
"Forget it, Tim. Their mamas wouldn't recognize those faces now."
Steiner laughed, a sound like dead leaves scraping on the sidewalk. "Guess you showed 'em pretty good, eh, Raff?"
"He showed 'em," Rafferty responded, nodding toward the Executioner. "I took the first one off okay, and then they japped me. Listen, I been thinkin' we could use Lambretta, here, and…"
"Easy, Jason." Broderick's voice was stern, a warning. "You could use some sleep."
Chastened, the sergeant nodded grudgingly. "I guess."
"We'll talk about the rest of it tomorrow, 'kay?"
"Okay."
He limped away in the direction of the showers, leaving Bolan on his own with Broderick and Steiner. Silence hung between them for a moment, finally broken by the slim blonde.
"We appreciate your helping Raff," Kurt Steiner said. "You gotta understand, he rambles sometimes when he's had a few."
"I figured."
"Solid. You're okay, Lambretta."
"Frank."
"Okay. We appreciate it, Frank."
"My pleasure."
"Yeah. Sleep tight."
They left him, fading back into the barracks proper, leaving Bolan alone in the latrine. Behind him, he could hear the rushing of the shower and Rafferty still muttering beneath the spray.
It was a start. The sergeant had distressed his friends, not once but twice, with his allusions to some covert bond between them. Bolan's gut was nagging at him, warning him of danger, but there was nothing firm for him to go on yet. For all he knew, the four might be involved in some illicit operation on the side — diverting arms to outside dealers, possibly, or dealing rations to the locals on the sly. They might have no connection whatsoever with the operation that McNerney and his backe
rs had already set in motion.
Still, he felt it in his bones, along with weariness from the encounter in the alleyway. The four were dirty, and he would have bet his life that they had been tight with Pommeroy and Baker when the renegade Berets were still alive and kicking. As for the missing Charbonneau… well, he would have to wait and see.
A shower first, and then some sleep. Perhaps the answer would be waiting for him in restless dreams. If not, the Executioner would have to find it for himself tomorrow.
15
"You must have patience. Nothing happens overnight."
"Perhaps. But I grow tired of waiting."
Blancanales drained his beer and flagged the waiter for a refill. Seated opposite, the woman known as Esperanza watched him thoughtfully, a small frown altering her beauty but incapable of hiding it.
"You are impetuous, Rosario," she said. "Ortega's prisons taught you nothing."
"Oh, they taught me something," he responded, contradicting her. "They taught me that tomorrow is not guaranteed to any man… or woman. Those who would succeed make opportunities. They do not wait for chance or fate to deal a winning hand."
"You are a soldier in the people's army now. You do not have the luxury of acting on your own."
Politician spread his hands. "I simply wish to act."
At 10:30 p.m. the restaurant was crowded, patrons following the Latin custom of dining late. The place was not Tegucigalpa's most expensive — Pol was masquerading as a Nicaraguan exile, not a Texas millionaire — but it would do. Esperanza had been suitably impressed by his impulsive invitation, seemingly impressed by his selection of a restaurant. She might not dine in such surroundings often, but a survey of the other diners reassured Politician that she was the most attractive woman in the room.
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