The redhead goon with the . 44 Magnum wasn't worth dying for by any stretch of the imagination. In that guy's eyes, Bolan saw the soul of a savage who might sell his mother to the devil for a life of luxury.
The silenced Beretta 93-R in Bolan's right fist sneezed once.
The Smith & Wesson Model 29 .44 Magnum bucked in Red's two-handed-grip, but his aim was thrown off by several inches as Bolan found critical mass. The .44 Magnum round bit a chunk of wood out of the doorway beside Bolan's head, while the 9 mm slug from the Executioner's Beretta drilled through the upper left side of Red's chest. Violently Red spun, the parabellum flesh-eater smashing his collarbone, tearing muscle apart and punching a jagged exit hole through his shoulder blade. Howling in agony, he crashed through the flimsy wooden table where he had lost so many games of cards and backgammon. Wood splintered into matchsticks beneath Red's weight. Cards and dice flew across the room. Red had turned up a losing hand again.
But the fight was far from being knocked out of Bear, who leaped to his feet, his features twisted in rage, a snarl ripping from his throat. Wheeling left, Bolan turned the Beretta on Bear as the big brute's Magnum snaked from leather for a killing shot. Bolan was ready to turn Bear's lights out with a headshot, knowing he already had one pigeon who would sing his own version of the Anaconda blues. But before he could squeeze the trigger, Bolan discovered he had an unexpected ally.
Special Agent Anthony Spiraldi hammered a snap kick off Bear's jaw. His jawbone shattered, teeth whirling through the air. Bear flipped over the couch.
"That one was on the house. Iceman," Spiraldi told Bolan.
Yeah, Bolan had just distinguished friend from foe in that room. "You must be Spiraldi."
"Right. I've been expecting you."
Bear groaned, rolled over on his side and spit out a tooth and a stream of blood.
"It looks like you weren't the only one," Bolan said, training the Beretta on Red as the guy struggled to his feet, his hand pressed over his chest.
"Christ," Red moaned, "you could've fuckin' killed me."
"That one's called Red," Spiraldi told Bolan. "The one who'll need some wirework on his jaw is Bear."
"Mercs?"
"Yeah. They're part of this new DEA SOD program — the war on drugs. I suppose you've already heard about this latest twist in Washington?"
"That's why I'm here, Spiraldi. I've got a lot of questions. Somebody's got the answers. What do you know?"
"All I know is that our people have been down in Brazil for more than two months trying to track down a Colombian colonel with big coke connections. By orders of the headshed of the division, we've been working with turkeys like these two."
"Tell me something I don't know, Spiraldi," Bolan growled, leathering his Beretta. Big Thunder, the .44 AutoMag was riding quickdraw leather on Bolan's right hip. The stainless-steel hand cannon caught Spiraldi's eye for a second.
The Fed grinned his approval of the AutoMag. "You come prepared. But I suppose that's one of the reasons why you've survived — being prepared."
"It helps. Let's cut the bull, Spiraldi. I want to grill this guy."
Bolan strode over to Red. "Take a seat," he told him, and grabbing him by the shoulder, Bolan slammed the guy down on the couch.
Red yelped in pain. "Jesus Christ! Why are you roughin' me up?"
"That's what you're going to tell me. Why did you draw on me like you did?"
"Why do you think, pal? You bust in here out of the sky with your piece spraying the room. Shit, I got orders to guard this guy. We've been told he's marked."
True, Bolan knew that Spiraldi was targeted for assassination. But so was Bolan. The Executioner remembered what Brognola had told him on the way to Dulles. The so-called director of the DEA's SOD, a man by the name of James Clarence, had been brought in from out of nowhere, it seemed, to head the program. No screening. No official channels. The whole situation was strange. What seemed even stranger was that no one in the upper echelons of this new division of the DEA had any experience as legitimate federal agents. Or maybe it was purposely designed that way? Hal Brognola had believed, and rightly so, that he was helping the DEA SOD in the beginning by feeding them intel on current druglords and their operations in South America. There was no question that the recent missions of Phoenix Force had taken them up against the hydra of the drug underworld and that Hal had plenty of info to feed the DEA SOD. Sure, it made sense to Bolan that the DEA would want to step up the fight against the international druglords. The coke and heroin kingpins were literally getting away with murder, and there was no end in sight to the random violence, or the burgeoning expansion of the drug empire. With billions and billions of dollars reaped from the abyss of human misery that drugs caused, the kingpins could buy and sell entire armies and governments. And they were. But just who was this James Clarence? Brognola's initial digging had found out that Clarence was an ex-Army colonel who had done some covert work for the CIA's Special Operations Division. His field of operations: Central and South America. His specialty: gunrunning, and so-called drug enforcement. If the finger of guilt pointed in the direction of Clarence, then Bolan would pay the guy a visit. Soon, real damn soon.
But Bolan knew he had only begun to root out the cannibals. A dark journey, he suspected, was just beginning to unfold. He doubted that the nightmare trail would end in the bowels of the Amazon jungle. Before this mission was over, he might end up bouncing back and forth across a dozen countries. And with a small army of assassins on his tail, he'd be looking over his shoulder every step of the way. If this so-called DEA SOD turned out to be a council of savages feeding on greed and violence, then Bolan would have to cleanse the whole damn lot of them. With hellfire. Death was the only way he could starve them out of business. Sure.
Bolan leveled a steely gaze on Red. "Who do you work for?"
"Who do you think? The head of the division. James Clarence."
"Clarence," Spiraldi said with a snort.
Bolan picked up on the Fed's cynicism. "How do you read this Clarence?"
"He's a Sphinx. A riddle wrapped inside an enigma. I'll tell you this much, SOD was set up by the CIA, I'm sure. Somebody got to the more expensive suits up top, I'd bet my life on it."
"You already have," Bolan reminded Spiraldi.
"Tell me about it."
"I don't need any more speculation and gut feeling at this point, Spiraldi. I need answers to a lot of questions. One thing that's troubling me is this: if the division is dirty, if they're working with the targets in Brazil, why would they send legitimate DEA agents down there on an undercover assignment?"
"My theory is we were used to set the targets up."
"A power play?"
"Sure. That's the only thing that makes sense. We spy on them, feed the division intel so it can make an assessment of what it's up against. The division bides its time, sharpens its blades until it feels it's strong enough to move in and muscle out the targets. In this racket everybody's a liar, either looking to cover his own ass or trying to topple somebody's throne so he can wear the crown. Now I'm not saying every agent or director's corrupt, but I've seen it happen often enough that someone everybody assumed was a good man suddenly turns up one day with shit all over his face because he got caught with his pants down."
"So you think Clarence hired these two?"
"Yeah. And everybody else involved on this operation."
Bolan considered Spiraldi's theory. If Clarence was dirty, then he had deliberately gone to Brognola and lied to him about his track record, and worse, about his present and future intentions for SOD. Even more troubling, Bolan strongly suspected the security of Stony Man Farm was in jeopardy. There were other dangers, too, other pieces missing from this puzzle. For Clarence to have gotten his position in the division, somebody in the DEA had to pull some strings. Brognola was going to have to do some more digging; it was that simple — or that deadly, depending upon where Hal's investigative skills led him. Worse still, there was a grim pos
sibility, Bolan knew, that Hal's life could be on the line.
Bolan scooped up both .44 Magnums and handed the revolvers to Spiraldi. "They won't be needing these." Quickly Bolan glanced around the cabin. A length of coiled rope was in one corner beside a pile of wood. He looked at Spiraldi. "Where can I make a phone call?"
"There's a town, if you want to call it that, about five miles down the trail. The trail forks. Take the left. There's not much there, just a post office, a combination tavern-trading post for the mountain men. I don't think they even have a sheriff there. In fact, from what these two have told me, the only ]aw is a state trooper station, but it's a good fifty miles west of here down the highway."
"I'm going into town. You tie this two up and sit on them."
You're just gonna leave me like this?" Red whined. "I'll bleed to death."
"There's a first-aid kit in the bathroom," Spiraldi told Bolan. "I'D dress his wound. I assume you have transportation."
"Yeah. A GMC Jimmy. How about that truck out front?"
"Right," Spiraldi said, then fished around in the splintered wreckage of the card table and pulled out a set of keys. "I'd better hold on to these."
Bolan pinned Red to the couch with an icy stare. "What's your connection with James Clarence?"
"I told you."
"Try again," Bolan said, unleathering his Beretta and drawing a bead on Red's face with the silencer. "If you don't talk, maybe your buddy will."
Red thought about his options for a moment as he broke out in a sweat. He had no options. The man behind the Beretta-was right; he was only worth keeping alive if he talked.
"Clarence is CIA. He was involved in some dirty tricks, some arms deals down in Central and South America. But, shit, pal, half of the CIA is dirty and more than half their operations are carried out by guys like us. Free-lancers."
"Don't dance with me. How did Clarence get to run his own division with the DEA?"
Red sneered. "How do you think? He had help. Somebody wanted him there to begin with. Somebody like Colonel Hector Alchupa."
Spiraldi nodded, as if he suddenly understood how the pieces were fitting together. "Alchupa," he murmured to himself.
"That's why you were down there, Spiraldi. Don't act so surprised."
Anger flared in Spiraldi's eyes. Bolan knew the guy should have figured it long before now. Either Spiraldi wasn't too bright, or he was involved with the enemy.
"Listen, Bolan, if you think I'm dirty, then you'd better think again."
Bolan showed Spiraldi a relaxed smile and holstered his Beretta. "No sweat, Spiraldi. Brognola already gave me The rundown on you. As far as I can tell, you're clean."
"And I intend to stay that way. I assume you came out here to pick me up as an escort down the Amazon River. Well, if you want my help, I suggest you stop trying to look through me for some sign of deceit or treachery."
"What was it you said a few minutes ago, guy? In this racket, everybody's a liar? Sounds to me like you don't trust Too many people, either."
"I took care of him for you, didn't I?" Spiraldi growled, pointing down at the unmoving lump that was Bear.
"Sure," Bolan said in a level tone. "If I'm going to run with you, I want to make sure you can go the distance."
"Count on it. The whole marathon. Whatever it takes."
"We'll see."
5
Pressed close to the wall near the open doorway, al-Rhabin had heard the entire conversation, the voice from inside the cabin carrying easily to his ears. There was nothing surprising about what he'd heard, and he felt a twinge of disappointment. The target was expecting a hunter. Someone was coming for him, Bolan was sure. Good. The target just didn't know who and what he was up against. He would soon find out. Mohammed al-Rhabin, though, wasn't quite prepared to deliver the death blow to Mack Bolan. A plan of attack had formed in the Syrian's mind, and he intended to see the game through. Yes, in a way, it was a game to him, he thought. Strength against strength. Cunning against cunning.
Crouched beside a tree in the woods that ringed the cabin, al-Rhabin watched as his practical target pulled away from the safehouse in his four-wheel-drive vehicle. As thick tread grabbed at the snow, the 4 x 4 slid away from the cabin, headlights stabbing into the darkness of the trail.
A truck was parked in front of the cabin. Al-Rhabin knew that the keys to that truck were inside, and getting inside the cabin was now al-Rhabin's main objective. Alchupa would be doubly pleased when he heard his informants there had been killed. After ail, Alchupa's moles had talked, had fingered the colonel and had given Bolan a direction in which to head. The moles would die, simply because they had outlived their usefulness. But al-Rhabin would let the one called Spiraldi live. Maybe al-Rhabin could shake his nerves, use the DEA agent somehow against Bolan. Yes, Bolan would return and find the safehouse an abattoir. But that wouldn't be Bolan's first clue that he was being lured toward the edge.
Al-Rhabin had plenty of time to chase Bolan into town, begin the stalk. He didn't intend to kill him outright in town anyway. No, al-Rhabin would like to see the feared Executioner sweat, live a few hours with the taste of terror in his mouth.
Terror?
Al-Rhabin shook his head softly. Well, maybe terror was pushing it. If he could send an icy shiver of fear down Bolan's spine, that would be satisfaction enough, at least for the moment. From then on it would be countdown to liquidation. The real thrill would come when he'd driven his jambiya into Bolan's guts. The Colombian colonel, al-Rhabin thought, was indeed right about one thing. This was a test of strength. This was a measure of character and pride. To kill Mack Bolan would be an achievement that would be heard around the world. It didn't bother him that only a select few in his underworld would know al-Rhabin was the one who had slaughtered the Executioner like a sacrificial lamb. Al-Rhabin knew his reputation as an assassin would grow, that he would be held in awe and fear when he killed Bolan. Who knows? He just might be able to dictate his own terms to future principals after this job was in the bag, command a million-dollar price tag per hit.
The future looked promising.
The present was al-Rhabin's ticket to a better tomorrow.
But there was something that the colonel wanted done first, in case al-Rhabin failed to kill Bolan. Alchupa had given him a miniature homing device with a range of 350 miles. Al-Rhabin was to plant the device on whatever transportation Bolan was using. The task was an affront to his skills, his very manhood, for the whole point of the homing device was to facilitate the tracking down of the Executioner in the event that the first attempt at assassination failed. Al-Rhabin didn't intend to fail.
Slipping through the darkness, reaching the corner of the cabin, al-Rhabin peered around the corner. Spiraldi was standing just outside the doorway about twenty feet away, smoking a cigarette and staring down the trail where Bolan's Jimmy had vanished. Al-Rhabin had just found his plant for the homing device. More terror. Possibly even distrust among the ranks once he got this hunt going.
So, al-Rhabin decided, he would carry out Alchupa's orders but only to cover himself. When he finished Bolan off, he would inform Alchupa that he had placed the homing device on the DEA agent and had done exactly what had been asked of him. Alchupa's doubt that he could have succeeded against the Executioner would be a slap in the colonel's face.
Al-Rhabin saw Spiraldi look skyward. The agent just stood there, smoking, stargazing. Al-Rhabin drew the cold air into his lungs and slid the jambiya from its sheath. He waited until Spiraldi turned his back to him, then the Syrian assassin broke from cover. The DEA man was making this too easy, al-Rhabin thought, and wanted to laugh out loud over what he knew was certain success.
Swiftly, hugging the wall of the cabin, al-Rhabin moved like a wraith to cut in half the distance between him and Spiraldi. For a long moment he stood behind Spiraldi watching the DEA man from the shadows. Al-Rhabin smiled. He could have killed the fool right there, the assassin thought, hefting the jambiya in his right hand. There was n
othing worse, though, in al-Rhabin's mind, than an easy mark. Challenge was what he wanted. Challenge sharpened the assassin's skills.
Raising the arm that held the Arab fighting knife, al-Rhabin took a step closer to Spiraldi, while the DEA man drew contentedly on his cigarette. Al-Rhabin held the knife frozen in the air, the tip of its blade at Spiraldi's neck.
The DEA man flicked his cigarette away and turned.
Al-Rhabin's eyes seemed to glow in the darkness as he locked gazes with Spiraldi. His face cut with fear, Spiraldi started to throw up his arm to block the Arab's knife hand, but al-Rhabin drove his knee into Spiraldi's crotch. Spiraldi doubled over, and instantly al-Rhabin slammed the buffalo horn handle of his knife into the side of the DEA man's head. As Spiraldi dropped to the ground, al-Rhabin drilled a kick against the agent's face to make sure he was out cold. Spiraldi would be out of action in no-man's-land for some time. For just a second the Syrian toyed with the idea of killing him. It was some time, at least six months, since al-Rhabin had last slit a man's throat with the jambiya. Perhaps he was rusty and needed the practice. No, he decided, he was a little too anxious to use the knife. Spiraldi would serve him better alive than dead.
Quickly al-Rhabin frisked Spiraldi and found the keys to the truck. Satisfied that so far all was going according to plan, the Arab took the homing device from his pants pocket, turned it on and dropped it into the pocket of Spiraldi's jacket.
Now for two clean turkey kills.
Entering the cabin, al-Rhabin found both informants with their hands and feet bound by rope. The larger of the two men was unconscious. Red was awake, and his eyes widened as ai-Rhabin stood over him.
"Who are you?" Red asked, his voice cracking as he struggled to sit up on the couch.
Slowly al-Rhabin ran the tip of his finger over the cold steel of the jambiya. He smiled at Red. "You talk too much, do you know that? A man's mouth can be like poison. You should think before you speak. The colonel would be very displeased if he heard what I just heard."
Blood of the Lion Page 5