5
Dave Grady looked up from his open textbook and watched a hot and tired Mack Bolan climb the motel steps to the second story. The big man paused at the soft drink machine, thumbed three quarters into the slot, punched a lighted button and grabbed his can of pop. He took two long swigs as he walked, finishing the can just as he reached his room.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dave Grady saw Bolan unlock his door and enter the dark room.
So that's the indestructible Mack Bolan. Dave Grady smiled, shifting in his deck chair as he tugged his swimming trunks up. The Executioner, huh. We'll see. The glare from the swimming pool made it hard for Dave to read the small print of his book, even with his sunglasses on. Just as well. His sensitive skin, pale as bleached desert bones, couldn't take much more sun, even with the thick layer of sunscreen he'd rubbed on. He tugged on his T-shirt and stood up. He had work to do.
Meticulously he folded his white bath towel flag-style into a neat triangle. He stooped over and stuffed the towel into the brand new red carryall next to his chair. He zipped the bag closed.
Twin girls about five or six were splashing in the pool, wrestling over a plastic volleyball too slippery to hold on to. Some water slapped up against the side of the pool and splashed out onto Dave's philosophy book, soaking the pages. The tiny perfect notes he'd written in the margins bled blue ink. The girls stopped splashing and swam to the edge of the pool to look at what they'd done.
"Sorry, mister," one of them said.
The other one giggled.
Their mother, a slim attractive women in her late twenties, dark skin slippery with suntan oil, was napping in an aluminum deck chair on the other side of the pool. She lay on her stomach, the top of her bikini untied.
Dave smiled at the twins. "That's all right, girls. Emptied a few pools myself when I was your age." He picked up his book and blotted the pages with the hem of his T-shirt. He pointed to his red bag. "You girls watch this for me while I get something cool to drink?"
The girls looked at their sleeping mother, then at each other. The giggler whispered to her sister. The sister shrugged.
"Well?" Dave asked.
"For a quarter," she said.
Dave Grady smiled. Now that he was this close, he noticed the giggler had a few more splotches of freckles across her pug nose than her sister. "Smart girls," he said, chuckling, "very smart." He fished around in the pocket of his new swimming trunks, snagged a dollar bill. He lifted the leg of the deck chair and slipped the dollar bill under it, pinning it to the concrete. "Keep the change. A bonus."
The giggler looked impressed. Her sister looked worried, glanced nervously back at their mother as if they might get caught. "We were just kidding, mister," she said. "We'll watch your bag for nothing."
"We made a deal." Dave winked. "Lesson number one: don't be afraid to ask for what you're worth."
Dave picked up his book and hurried back to his room. Once inside, he quickly stripped out of his trunks and T-shirt and put on his suit and tie. He liked to dress for these occasions.
He splashed some cologne onto his face while he peered through the crack in his curtain, across the courtyard to Mack Bolan's room. He was humming a show tune, one that he couldn't remember the words to. Nothing going on over there yet. He went into the bathroom, uncapped the tube of toothpaste and squeezed exactly an inch onto his toothbrush. Then he vigorously brushed his teeth. Something he always did just before a kill. That and the cologne.
He went back to his bed, knelt down and pulled a small suitcase from under the bed. Flipping open the lid, he began to assemble the six component parts of his Steyr AUG assault rifle. As he notched each piece into place, he began to mentally review the questions he thought might be asked on his philosophy test next week. The way things looked now, he'd be done with this hit in plenty of time to do some extra studying.
* * *
Although he was dripping with sweat, Bolan adjusted the shower water to a fairly hot temperature before stepping in. The steaming needles of water stabbed at his skin like hundreds of tiny teeth. His skin flushed under the torrent, except for the dozens of white scars that splotched and lined his body.
He studied them one at a time. White clumps like fat leeches. The hot water pounded against them and they felt nothing. Dead zones. With each passing year there were more and more of those dead zones, scar tissue without feeling. In five years would his whole body be numb? Maybe Hal was right, the numbness had spread to his insides. Scar tissue that couldn't be seen.
Then he thought of Colonel Leland «Daredevil» Danby. Each had gone his own way after Bolan was transferred to another unit in Nam. They hadn't spoken once since. But Bolan never doubted that the Colonel remained his friend.
Bolan watched the water beat dully against a long scar where a sniper bullet had bounced off a rib. Danby had slapped a bandage on the wound and told Bolan to let them shoot him in the head next time where no damage could be done. Bolan smiled at the memory. He felt a tightening in his chest.
No, damn it, Hal was wrong. The scars, whether internal or external, didn't make you feel less. They reminded you what you were fighting for, what the costs of losing were. If anything, they made you feel more.
Bolan twisted the shower knob and the water turned icy. He felt his skin reacting, pores closing, adrenaline pumping the veins full of energy.
He toweled off and dressed in fresh clothes. Within five minutes he was packed and heading for the door, not a trace left behind to indicate anyone had even stayed here.
As he descended the concrete steps and cut across the pool area toward the parking lot, he looked around again for some sign that he'd been followed or discovered. But there was nothing. Twin girls playing in the pool, a shapely woman sunning herself in a lounge chair, a couple of nervous teenagers standing by the manager's office counting out their balled-up money to see if they had enough for an afternoon where their parents couldn't find them.
Bolan kept walking. He was safe.
* * *
Dave Grady followed Bolan down the steps through the 1.5x scope attached to his AUG. The big man was moving quickly, but still looking around, checking everything out. Being careful. Oh, yes, he was as good as they said. But not good enough.
Bolan was cutting across the pool area now, just as he'd done twenty minutes earlier. Just as everyone did to get to and from the parking lot. Just as Dave had planned.
Finding Bolan had been the hard part. Hours on his personal computer, the phone receiver plugged into the modem, tapping into the private accounts and records of airlines, bus companies, railroads, car rental agencies. Matching credit card numbers with master lists, narrowing the field down, eliminating the obvious Family men. It was all quite illegal and, as far as the companies he'd tapped knew, quite impossible. But not for him.
It had taken hundreds of phone calls, lots of footwork by Noah South's men, tracking down dozens of false leads, but it had all paid off. Why Bolan had stayed in the Southern California area after flipping Danzig's switch was the big mystery. If he'd just hopped a plane and gone somewhere, anywhere, they'd never have found him. But he hadn't. And that mistake was going to cost him his life.
Grady clutched the AUG tighter, his finger hooking around the trigger. The AUG was the standard arm of the Austrian army, though Grady had added a few slight modifications. Its ultramodern construction was based on the bullpup design, with three interchangeable barrel lengths available.
Chambered for the 5.56 NATO cartridge, the AUG barrel was chrome-lined and could be plunged into cold water for immediate cooling without hurting the performance. The 30-round lightweight magazine was made of transparent plastic, so Dave always knew how many shots he had left. Not that it mattered; he'd need only one bullet.
That was all he'd ever needed.
Grady followed Bolan's athletic gait through his scope, the flash hider on the muzzle nudging the curtain aside just a couple of inches.
Wait, Dave, he told himself. Wait
.
He's almost there. The perfect spot. Almost.
A couple more steps.
Bolan stopped.
He's talking to the twins. One's answering; the other's giggling. He's nodding, smiling at them.
He's moving again. That's it. One more step and…
Now!
Grady squeezed the trigger. The bullet punched through the window and screamed toward its target.
Less than a second later, it found its mark.
* * *
Bolan smiled at the twins as they splashed in the pool. He squinted from the glare of the pool and reached for his aviator sunglasses, hooking the wire side pieces over his ears.
The girls stopped splashing to watch him walk by. One giggled and whispered to her sister.
Bolan noticed that the young man who'd been so wrapped up in his reading was no longer poolside. But his bag still was.
"Went to get a drink," the twin said. "We're watching his stuff."
"For a dollar." The other twin giggled, pointing to the dollar bill flapping under the leg of the deck chair.
"We can watch your stuff, too," the first one said.
"For a dollar?" Bolan asked!
"Fifty cents," the giggler offered.
Bolan smiled at them and continued walking. "Maybe next time."
But something bothered him.
The kid who'd been propped up there earlier, pale, streaked with globs of sunscreen, had been reading intently. Where was the book? Why carry it with you if you were just going for a drink? Maybe that was what he told the kids; maybe he went to the john. Simple explanation. Still, why pay a buck for kids to watch your bag when you can just as easily stick your book in it and carry it with you?
Bolan studied the bag as he walked toward it, slowing his step. It was stuffed full. With what? Books?
He felt a cold rush in his stomach. Casually, he shaded his sunglasses and looked around the courtyard of the motel. The buildings were constructed in a U around the tiny pool, as if that little bit of water demanded constant attention. The windows with their heavy curtains looked like hundreds of sleepy eyes all staring down at him.
Then he saw the flash.
Just a faint wink of light on the second story. The sun reflecting off glass. And in that instant Bolan knew. He looked at the window, the curtain slightly parted; he looked at the red bag stuffed and zipped closed; he looked back at the little girls splashing.
"Down!" he yelled at them. "Duck under the water."
The mother stirred at the noise, turning so abruptly she forgot her bikini top was untied. Her cool white breasts contrasted sharply with the dark skin around them. She started to tug her top on and to speak firmly to the big rugged man who was yelling at her girls, and who was now jumping into the pool, fully clothed, sunglasses and all.
But too late.
Dave Grady's bullet hit the red bag and a thick hot wave of sticky flame washed over her, melting her skin, sizzling her blood against the cement, bursting her organs in a spray of boiling fluids.
Bolan had jumped into the shallow end and grabbed both startled girls by the arms and pulled them under the water, just seconds before the bomb exploded into a forty-foot fireball. The girls struggled against him, pulling in opposite directions, afraid he was some kind of pervert their mother had warned them against. The concussion of the explosion rocked the water as if they were in a small bathtub, sending them tumbling, scraping against the pool bottom. The twin who did all the talking finally twisted free and kicked to the surface.
Too soon.
A whoosh of pure flame licked out over the pool surface and swallowed her as quickly as it had her mother, charring her hair and face and arms. Bolan swam underwater to her, dragging the giggler in one hand, hooking the other's ankle with his free hand and pulling her under. That extinguished the flames.
He tugged them both to the deep end where he could see the fire had died out. As he swam, he heard the unmistakable plunking sound of bullets spitting into the water. A foot ahead he saw a white bubbly line where a bullet sliced through the water and chipped the tile off the side of the pool.
Another plunk and the giggler went limp in his right hand. He looked around, saw the blood billowing from a hole in her back, a long string of saliva and blood swirl from her mouth. The eyes open and dead.
He released her hand. A couple more kicks and he was at the pool's edge. He cradled the burned twin in his arms and lifted her out of the water onto the cement lip of the pool. The left side of her face was charred and blistered; all her hair was gone. But she was alive.
Another bullet plunked water and Bolan quickly dived under the surface, kicking off from the side of the pool. As he swam, he reached back, unsnapped the holster at the small of his back and yanked the Beretta free. He let himself sink to the bottom, his powerful legs coiling beneath him, his Beretta clutched in both hands.
He sprang straight upward, legs catapulting him through the water, air streaming from his flared nostrils like smoke. He broke surface. Immediately he raised his gun at the window. Smoke and flames and chlorine water clawed at his eyes, but he squinted against them and fired. Bullets followed each other like screaming eagles as they exploded through the assassin's motel window.
There was no return fire.
Bolan climbed out of the pool, water streaming from every limb. With gun in hand he stalked through the smoky debris like some demon. People on the nearby street were running, screaming, throwing themselves onto the sidewalks. The two kids by the manager's office stood frozen, watching this hulking warrior emerging from water and fire and smoke.
"Get an ambulance!" Bolan shouted at them, then pointed to the little girl. "Move!"
They nodded dumbly. The girl was the first to move, stumbling into the manager's office and grabbing the phone.
Bolan ran in a crouch toward the steps. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the smoldering heap of black ash that once was a slim, tan mother. He could see the floating body of a little girl, a gaping hole in her back.
He took the cement stairs three at a time, somersaulting when he got to the last step, rolling to his feet in a semicrouch, gun ready. Three more giant steps and he was kicking down the door and diving into the room.
Empty.
No one. Nothing. Except for the broken glass and bullet holes in the wall, the room looked untouched and barren. He found the heavy rope knotted around the sink and hung out the bathroom window. Bolan grimaced. Very professional. The assassin found him quickly, used the bomb both to kill Bolan and create a diversion to allow him to escape. And having a couple of other bodies would have slowed down the police investigation. They'd have to identify the remains, then figure out which one was the target.
Smart. Cruel.
Bolan conjured up the image of the skinny boy in the lounge chair. Maybe nineteen or twenty. Could he have planned this whole thing himself? If so, he would still be on Bolan's tail now that he'd failed. That was a complication. He was very good.
The hiccuping sirens nudged Bolan from his thoughts. He holstered his Beretta, climbed through the bathroom window and shinned down the rope. It smelled faintly of cologne.
As he climbed down, he noticed a small cut on his hand, he wasn't sure from what. Bullet, glass, something.
Just another scar, he thought. One more dead zone.
6
"Hey, you. Cummings. Step forward."
Bolan stepped forward. He stood at attention, shoulders back, chest out, eyes forward. He'd never liked this stance, even in the Army.
The man with the skinny mustache and starched gray uniform took three brisk military steps toward Bolan while reading the application form.
"Looks impressive, Cummings."
"Thank you, sir," Bolan said.
"It says here you served in Vietnam."
"Yes, sir."
"Well, several of our staff served there. However, though we are a military school, most of our staff did not serve in the military. They
are teachers. Each has a rank, but the main job is teaching these kids. You understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Fine. Step back."
Bolan stepped backward into the line of applicants. On his right were two burly men, on his left a short wiry man. One of the two men on his right had short-cropped hair that let a lot of pink scalp show through. His two front teeth were gold. He wore jeans, a white sleeveless T-shirt that displayed his muscular arms and hand-tooled cowboy boots that, like their owner, had probably never seen a cow or even a horse. He stood at a half-slouch attention.
The other big man stood erect, the most impressive attention stance Bolan had ever seen. Though they'd been told ahead of time to dress in comfortable clothing for today's activities, this man wore a tie and sport jacket. His shoes were polished to a high gloss.
The short wiry man was maybe thirty. He stood at attention, mostly by mimicking the other three. Like the guy with the gold teeth, he was not ex-military. But unlike the guy with the gold teeth, he was making an effort to follow the procedure. Even though he wore jogging shorts and shoes, he walked in a rolling motion, like a rodeo cowboy.
"Now," the man in the starchy uniform continued, "you four men will have to compete for this job. The position of survival instructor is important here at Ridgemont Academy. You will have a great responsibility: training our young men and women to take care of themsel…"
"You got girls here?" the man with the gold teeth sneered.
"Yes, Koontz. We have 374 young men and 63 young ladies. Had you read the brochure, you would have known this."
Deems, a short wiry man in jogging shorts, laughed and received a threatening glare from Koontz.
Koontz looked at the major. "I thought you was looking for someone who could teach your pups how to get along when there was nothing to read to tell them how."
"Your point is well taken, Mr. Koontz. Now, let us proceed to the training ground. There I will quiz you each on points of survival. Then you will each be required to demonstrate some physical agility as well as some techniques of hand-to-hand combat." He looked at the man in the tie and jacket. "I suggest, Boorman, that you lose the tie and jacket. The physical part of this application is quite arduous."
Fire Eaters Page 4