Kam Chek held out a leather belt to one of the two men. When the man didn't take the belt immediately a guard clubbed him over the head with the butt of his rifle. The man dropped to his knees, vomited.
Livid with rage, Kam Chek screamed at the man, kicked him in the ribs. "Get up! Get up! Have you no pride, ferang? Sniveling like some worm before your master!"
Bolan's teeth were set on edge. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a look of depthless pity and sorrow shadow Grimaldi's face. Grimaldi, he knew, was a man of great courage. The guy was bleeding inside. Not for himself, hell no.
The second prisoner took the belt that was handed to him, but the other wretch had to be hauled to his feet by the guards. Shaking in terror, that man, too, reached for his belt, as a tear broke from his eye.
"You disgust me," Kam Chek snarled when he noticed the man's emotion. Then he stepped behind the two prisoners, shoving them one at a time behind Bolan and Grimaldi. "You are no man. I have seen little girls with more courage than you. If you do not stop your sniveling, I will cut off your balls right here! Do you understand?"
Kam Chek spit on the back of the man's head, and continued to hurl insults at the prisoner for a full thirty seconds. Then he shouted, "Begin!"
Bolan clenched his fists. He heard a belt crack flesh, saw Grimaldi flinch.
The man behind Bolan whipped his belt through the air, slapped Bolan on the shoulder with the thick leather.
"Harder!" Kam Chek screamed.
Again, Bolan took the belt on his shoulder. But the second time the blow merely grazed his skin, rolling off him like the fluttery edge of a feather.
"Harder! Harder, you coward, harder! Those blows do not count! Harder!"
Bolan heard a sob break from the throat of the prisoner behind him, a strangled cry for deliverance.
The wretched prisoner fell to his knees. He buried his face in his hands and wept. "I can't... I can't do it... I..."
Furious, Kam Chek screamed something in his native tongue.
Bolan felt the anguish, the hatred burn through his guts. He knew with a terrible certainty what was going to happen next.
"I can't... I can't..."
The samurai sword sprang from its scabbard. Snarling, Kam Chek fisted the hilt with both hands.
Bolan heard the decapitating blow, a wet dull sound, followed by a thud. Bolan looked down and saw the severed head roll between his legs. Dead eyes stared up at Bolan, white orbs frozen forever in horror and grief.
Bolan's throat constricted, his heart felt like a block of ice in his chest. He would be free again, he told himself. He would escape. He must. There will be vengeance, he vowed. And it will be a terrible vengeance on you, Kam Chek, you goddamn soulless butcher.
Kam Chek now directed his rage toward the other prisoners, seeking in vain for a volunteer to replace the beheaded man. "Are there no men among you? Are you all women, cowering in fear of pain? I will kill you all, if that's what it takes."
When no one volunteered, another prisoner was selected and pushed bodily into position behind Bolan.
The headless body was left where it lay.
The belt-wielding prisoners needed no more urging. They flayed Bolan and Grimaldi with all the strength they could muster in their weakened condition. After a dozen blows, long welts streaked the backs of Bolan and Grimaldi. Then the blistered skin broke open. Blood began to trickle, then stream down their backs.
Kam Chek still screamed, "Harder!"
Fire raced through every inch of Bolan's body. His muscles felt as if they were being torn open by razors. His head swam with nausea, an acid taste filling his mouth as he choked back the bile. He felt himself slipping into unconsciousness; the screaming, the cursing, the crackle of leather as it struck his flesh became a distant, distorted jumble of noise in his ears.
Then the guards threw buckets of salty water over Bolan and Grimaldi.
With a jolt, Bolan felt his strength return with the fire of the salt water sinking into his stripped flesh. Then he shivered, an icy chill running down his spine, a white light flashing before his eyes.
Urged on by the screaming Kam Chek, the prisoners began pummeling Bolan and Grimaldi about the face, head and back with their fists. Kam Chek spurred the prisoners on with his whip, lashing them front and back, directing their blows with his stinging leather. For a full two minutes, Bolan and Grimaldi were punching bags. And, within a matter of seconds, their faces and torso were turned into something that resembled raw hamburger.
Bolan tried to roll with each punch, but each blow that connected brought him that much closer to unconsciousness. He could tell that the prisoners inflicting his punishment were aiming their blows carefully, staying clear of the nose, the ribs, any bone that could be easily broken, any soft area that could be crushed; they were avoiding lethal strikes that could send bone splinters into the brain or rupture vital organs. And this fact told Bolan that he and Grimaldi were meant to survive this beating. In the mind of someone like Kam Chek, Bolan realized, death would seem to be too easy an escape. No, the cannibal wanted the two of them to live with the pain and the humiliation, wanted them to feel the sucking fires of their own hatred, to taste the bitterness of their impotent rage.
Kam Chek kept screaming at the men not to hold back on their punches, but at this point not even the brutal master's whip could force the emaciated prisoners to do what their failing strength would not let them do. Finally, the two prisoners collapsed in exhaustion.
Blood poured out of the mouths of Bolan and Grimaldi. Bolan slumped, his vision fading in and out, the ropes biting into his wrists. Grimaldi heaved a ragged breath, then his head lolled to the side and he went limp in his bondage.
Disgusted, Kam Chek kicked his forced torturers in the face. Then the whipmaster unsheathed his samurai sword. With four lightning strokes, he sliced through the ropes that bound the hands of Bolan and Grimaldi. Both men toppled face first into the dust. Blood formed a puddle beneath their faces, blackened the dirt.
Bolan felt a boot plunge into his gut. With a stubborn effort, he let the momentum of the kick flip him onto his back.
There was a terrible ringing in Bolan's ears, a sound that pierced his throbbing brain as if an ice pick had been lanced through his eardrums. Through a gray fog, he saw Kam Chek loom over him, resting clenched fists on his hips. If only he had the strength, Bolan thought, he would drive his boot through the guy's nuts. If only... if only...
Then he thought about Grimaldi, wondered if his friend had survived. If he hadn't, Bolan vowed there would be hell to pay.
Kam Chek smiled. To Bolan the expression looked like a vision from his worst nightmare. The Oriental barbarian spoke, in a gloating voice that stirred Bolan's rage like a stick in smoldering ashes.
"Ferang."
That word again, Bolan thought. That voice... It echoed through his head, a swirling, swollen heat.
Dimly, Bolan saw Kam Chek's smile disappear. Before he lapsed into blackness, he heard the final words.
"Welcome to hell."
14
Ronny Brennan felt as if he was back at the top. Feeling good. Looking like a million bucks. Absolutely a prize-winning stallion in white silk threads, ready for the women. He had survived the crisis of being captured and used like a pawn by Bolan, and he felt that once again his world was back in order.
Hell, he thought, this could turn out to be his return to triumph. He was back among the kind of people who appreciated him, not the gung ho, moronically idealistic psychos like that Bolan and Grimaldi. He hoped they were eating shit right now. If only they could see him here in the banquet hall, in all his glory. Solid gold incarnate. What was it his favorite latenight talk-show host said? "It's going to be a magic night." Yeah, that was it. A magic night. Brennan said those words to himself a few times, relishing their sound.
Seated at the opposite end of the table from Torquemandan, Brennan was stuffing his belly with lamb, pork, an assortment of cheeses, fruit, caviar, smoked salmon, s
hrimp. God, he thought, this Torquemandan knows how to live. If there's one thing this Italian boy can appreciate, it's good eating. Brennan almost said, Hey, Torquee, baby, pass the spaghetti, the vino, will ya, then remembered where he was. And who he was. And what he was. No. Ronny Brennan was not the top dog here. Ronny Brennan was strictly small potatoes, a mere page at the foot of the king's throne. Suddenly that feeling of smallness and unimportance dampened his sense of well-being and made him very uncomfortable indeed. And just a touch angry.
Adding to his discomfort was the look in Torquemandan's eyes. Cold. Distant. Brooding. Like the guy wanted to devour something, or somebody, Brennan thought. How come I get the feeling I'm being set up for some kind of fall, huh? All Ronny wanted to do then was make tracks for Bangkok and get on the next plane for the States. What was going on in the weird bastard's head, anyway? Brennan wondered. But he forced a smile at Torquemandan when he realized suddenly that his host had caught him staring.
Torquemandan cleared his throat loudly, formed a steeple with his hands. "Ronald. There are some things that we need to discuss. Serious matters, which, uh, need some clearing up. We must talk."
Brennan looked at Torquemandan carefully. What's with this Ronald shit? he thought. Nobody talked to him like that. Like he was some kind of snot-nosed kid. Some kind of frigging dog that got patted on the head when it fetched the master's bone.
"Okay. Shoot, Mr. Torquemandan," he replied, hoping he was hiding his misgivings.
Torquemandan nodded, smiled. "Yes. Shoot, indeed. It's been what, two years since I last saw you, Ronald? Our only meeting ever, as I recall."
"Yeah." What the hell's the point, Brennan wondered.
"The presence, indeed the violent intrusion, of Mack Bolan here at the headquarters of our Devil's Horn organization has caused some of our more prominent members to become a little... edgy."
Brennan shrugged, as if he didn't understand what Torquemandan was talking about. But he knew. The so-called prominent members of the Horn were the guys in suits within the legitimate circles of the established Thai government. He figured some of them had been dining with Torquemandan at this very table earlier, though when he had been conducted by guards to the banquet hall, no one was there but Torquemandan. Those guys were useful up to a point, Brennan thought, but when the heat came down they weren't worth a shit. They would be the first ones to run and hide. And, if worse came to worst, they would merely start pointing fingers, naming names, they would cut their losses and seek out the next rainbow, Brennan had no use for chickenshits like that.
Torquemandan rested a large hand on the table. A dark look shadowed his face. "Ronald... we need to know just how badly this Bolan has damaged your New York operation. And why he would pick on you so suddenly."
Accusation time, huh. Brennan felt the anger slice through his guts, but made a conscious effort not to appear defensive or resentful. Torquemandan was, after all, a businessman, and his gripes, if he had any, were legitimate, Brennan reasoned, the guy was just trying to serve the best interests of the Horn.
"I'm not sure why this Bolan came after me, Mr. Torquemandan, honest."
Torquemandan smiled patronizingly. "I am not disputing your honesty, Ronald. Feel free to correct me if I am wrong."
Brennan didn't know what to make of that statement. Hurriedly, he continued, "Bolan busted up a crack house of mine, Mr. Torquemandan. He bagged one of my top dealers, an ounce man who'd just about outlived his usefulness anyway. Well, this ounce man squawked, it seems, to save his own skin. He was nothing but a street punk, an easy mark..."
Torquemandan interrupted. "I trust your judgment of men will be better in the future."
Brennan fought the urge to jump out of his seat and grab the smug bastard by the throat. Who the hell did he think he was anyway, questioning his judgment? But Brennan merely spread his hands, an apologetic look on his face. "A mistake. It won't happen again."
"Rest assured, Ronald."
"We only survive in the business, Mr. Torquemandan, if we learn from our mistakes, as I'm sure you know."
"Indeed."
"Sometimes, it's learning the hard way, unfortunately. Anyway... Bolan roughed up this guy to get to me, and the creep caved in. He had no guts doing that, after everything I'd done for him."
"Precisely, Ronald. Exactly how I would feel."
Brennan looked at Torquemandan for a moment, hoping he was concealing his confusion, the bad gut feeling that was choking him.
"If you're saying there's a leak at my end, Mr. Torquemandan, well, the best thing for me to do would be to check it out as soon as I get back."
Torquemandan nodded, rested his hands in his lap. "I hope there's no confusion here, Ronald."
"How's that, Mr. Torquemandan?"
"Well... let's call it a matter of organizational priorities, status, if you will."
What the fuck's with all this double-talk? Brennan thought. Let's cut the crap here, buddy.
"You see, Ronald, I am well aware that in the early years, when I sent some of my men to you, more precisely to your deceased father, you were ready and willing to help me set up the Horn. And you proved very capable. I could have no personal contact with you at that time, which was unfortunate. That left some rough edges... my CIA past, you understand. I became a wanted man near the end of the Vietnam debacle, Ronald. Company orders were to terminate me with extreme prejudice on sight." Torquemandan chuckled. "Over the past decade, I have had so much plastic surgery done that I can't even remember what I looked like six months ago."
Brennan nodded, chuckling at the guy's bad attempt at humor. "As far as I'm concerned, Mr. Torquemandan, you've always been the top do... top man."
"That's good to hear, Ronald. I have heard rumors that you've been spreading your feathers far and wide back in the States. Certain people were beginning to get the impression that the Devil's Horn was your creation, thus your property. Would you like to be sitting where I am, Ronald?"
Brennan had to think about that. The guy was halfway across the frigging world, hiding out in the jungle with a CIA contract out on his head. But, then again, Torquemandan had the power that he wanted. He had the wealth, the contacts. Hell, he had everything. Except for the price on his head, perhaps. Maybe all that material jazz, Brennan thought, wasn't really worth spit if a man didn't have freedom of movement. What good was money if a man didn't have the security to enjoy all the pleasures that money could acquire for him?
"I'm not sure, Mr. Torquemandan."
"That was an honest answer, Ronald. I could see you were thinking about it."
What is this guy — psychic? Brennan asked himself. And did he think Brennan's earlier statements were not honest? It was time to wrap this up.
"Look, Mr. Torquemandan..."
"Call me Jonathan, Ronald."
"Okay, Jonathan. A while back I sent some specialists in the trade to you. They helped you out, but you ran the risks, ultimately, of getting burned. I can respect and admire a man who takes the kinds of risks you have. You've won. We've all won. I've established a big... hell, a massive operation for you at the other end in the States..."
"And for that, you feel you deserve some respect. Correct, Ronald?"
You'd better fucking believe it, dude. Brennan shrugged. "Well... let's just say I've taken considerable risks, too. I've pulled my weight and kept up my end, Mr. Torque... Jonathan. I believe every man gets what he deserves in the end."
Torquemandan nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. Yes, indeed you have, Ronald. And you're absolutely right, Ronald. Every man gets what he deserves in the end."
Brennan didn't like the way that was said.
"Look, Jonathan. All I want to do right now is get a good night's sleep and get back to New York tomorrow. The past day or so has been a frigging nightmare for me. I just want to leave it all behind. I've got to get back to business as usual, you understand?"
"Of course." Torquemandan stood and half-turned, gesturing toward the giant oak double door
s behind him. "And you will be free to leave it all behind, Ronald. Yes, I'm feeling better about our situation already. Much, much better. Now that we've cleared the air, shall we take a walk?"
Brennan hesitated, then rose from his chair. Why was Torquemandan grinning at him like that? he wondered.
Slowly, Brennan walked toward Torquemandan. The New York druglord felt an icy chill go down his spine, a tremor in his legs. He was getting bad vibes about Torquemandan. In fact, the CIA renegade suddenly looked terrifying to Brennan.
"Come, Ronald. I have something for you to see."
* * *
Torquemandan knew exactly what he had to do. And that was to make an example of Ronald Brennan, for the inmate population as well as for the gathered members of the Devil's Horn. The inflicting of pain, intense, horrible pain was the only clear-cut solution to this crisis. There was simply too much to gain, or lose, at this point. Torquemandan could not afford to leave any loose ends dangling. And Brennan was clearly a loose end, hanging all the way down to his shoes. A definite and very serious liability to the organization.
If Brennan returned to the States, the local and federal law would be all over him like a cheap suit, Torquemandan knew. He did not believe that Brennan could hold out against constant harassment or tough questioning by the law. One thing would lead to another, and there would be more intruders like Bolan. Yes, Brennan had already shown that he couldn't handle the pressure at his end. The man simply crumbled during a crisis.
It was time for Torquemandan to reassert his absolute hold on power. There could be no treacherous scheming, no shadowy power struggle within the ranks. History, he recalled, was full of black examples of how powerful regimes disintegrated because of disaffection within. The Third Reich was one such regime.
Not only did Torquemandan need to make an example of the New York druglord, but he was certain that Brennan had been mocking him back in the banquet hall, that he had been thinking treacherous and derisive thoughts right under this very roof. The arrogance of the man infuriated Torquemandan. And Torquemandan needed to salve his bruised ego. In Torquemandan's mind Brennan was no guest of honor; he was a peasant, a small-timer, an opportunist who'd been riding the coattails of the organization's success.
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