Backlash

by Don Pendleton

  The aircraft lumbered to a stop, and the pilot opened the cockpit door. He jumped down as Hoffman switched back to the camera, then he reached into the plane for a bag.

  Hoffman was disappointed that Pagan himself wasn't there, but it would have been too much to hope for. He shot the rest of the film, then dropped to one knee to take the lens off. He was so busy fumbling with the heavy lens that he didn't hear the grass rustle until the man was almost on him. The CIA agent turned just as the gunner stepped out of the tall grass, a Galil in hand. He seemed surprised to see Hoffman and looked around as if some kind of practical joke had been played on him. In that split second of hesitation Hoffman hurled the camera, then dived to the left, slugs from the Galil hot on his heels.

  He scrambled to his feet, dodging to the right, then to the left, hoping the guy chased him instead of emptying his chip. Hoffman tugged his own weapon free, but plunged on through the grass for several yards before turning to face his pursuer.

  The man bulled his way straight through the eight-foot-high growth, and Hoffman could track him by the surging rasp of the jagged grass. He took dead aim on a spot just ahead of the charging man and was about to fire when he heard a shout. He hesitated for a second, and the guard stopped. Another shout echoed overhead, then sifted down through the grass.

  Hoffman recognized the voice of Vince Arledge. Taking advantage of the diversion, the CIA agent backed through the grass as quickly as he dared, heading in a straight line toward the road. He heard the fence rattle and realized that Arledge or the bald guy, maybe both, had climbed the fence and joined the pursuit.

  He sprawled headlong as he left the grass, tripping over the sharp incline and landing heavily. The wind was knocked from his lungs, and he lay there for a few seconds, sucking at the air and trying to shake loose the swarm of shooting stars slicing through his head. Then he crawled up the short bank and dashed toward his car. A jeep was angled across the road, but it was empty.

  He darted around the vehicle and made for the Ford, hoping it hadn't been found. He was in luck.

  The uproar behind him continued as he ripped open the door. The engine rumbled to life, and Hoffman forced himself to take a deep, calming breath before hitting the gas.

  The tires slipped on the grass and mud for a second, then dug in. The car slewed sidewise but kept moving forward. When the front wheels reached the pavement, Hoffman jerked the wheel and hit the gas. The rear wheels spun furiously, then caught as he backed off on the pedal. The car lurched onto the roadway as two men charged past the jeep, one on either side.

  Hoffman floored it as the first volley took out his rear window. The Ford jerked ahead with a squeal and a second burst of gunfire raked the roof. Hoffman kept his head below the dash, steering blind for a few seconds. He braked, slipping toward the edge of the pavement. Like a wise guy teasing a hitchhiker, he turned and looked back over the trunk.

  When the tall guy got close enough, Hoffman fired three times, the big Browning 9 mm almost too much to handle in that awkward position. He saw the guy stumble then fall to one knee. The man's face, still wearing that surprised look, glowed an eerie red in the glare of the taillights. Baldie dived off the roadway into the ditch. Hoffman emptied the Browning and saw the red, face disappear in a deep ruby geyser.

  Arledge careered out of the marsh grass twenty feet behind the dead man. Hoffman saw him glance at the twitching corpse for an instant, then swing his pistol up into a two-handed grip. "Hoffman," he shouted as the bald guy turned and ran back toward the jeep. Headlights speared through the darkness, and Hoffman kicked the Ford into low and put the pedal to the floor. Arledge opened up, and Hoffman bent his head below the dash.

  He knew he could take the jeep, but he had to stay alive long enough to open a little distance between the two vehicles. He was in third gear and doing sixty when he reached the wooden gate. He ducked his head and plowed through the barricade, jerking the wheel left and fantailing across the four-lane highway. He floored it again and stared at the rearview. He was a quarter mile ahead and widening his lead when the jeep lurched onto the highway.

  He'd won this round, but he'd lost the camera — and the proof he needed.

  Chapter Eight

  The peeling paint on the weather-beaten sign read Showtime Freight Forwarders. The limo Bolan had been following was parked near a corner of the building, its roof glistening with rain. Steam rose into the humid mist, coiling up off the hood. The faint metallic ping of a cooling engine tolled like a tiny bell.

  Bolan could hear nothing from the building as he listened at the door. He hadn't seen the men leave the car, but they had to be here somewhere. He pressed his ear to the door, but still heard nothing but the soft hiss of the swirling drizzle.

  He tried the door, but it was locked. He slid along the wall, keeping one hand on the damp cinder block, and turned the corner. Down toward the water, a steel ladder, set in the wall and raised out of reach, led to the warehouse roof.

  The warrior tried to reach the ladder by jumping, but it was too high. He looked around for something to give him an edge. The side of the building was clean. Bolan headed down toward the water and found himself confronted by a loading dock. A stack of empty freight pallets occupied one corner, nudged against a corrugated freight bay door. The warrior climbed onto the dock, hauled one of the pallets to the edge, then dropped back to ground level.

  Lugging the splintery skid to a spot beneath the ladder, he leaned it against the wall. The lumber was rough and old, smeared with tar and spiny with splinters, but it looked sturdy enough for his use. Checking with one foot to make sure it was solid, he dug his toe into a crevice between two slats. Bouncing twice to get his rhythm, Bolan leaned toward the wall and strained upward. Quickly shifting his feet, he got a foothold on the top of the pallet. His balance was thrown off by the proximity to the wall, but he was high enough to reach the ladder. As he started to fall backward, his fingers closed around one rung.

  Letting the ladder take his full weight, he swung free, feeling the metal give a little under him. Bolan dangled for a few seconds, then pulled himself up to the next rung. One more, and he was able to get a foot on the bottom rung. Scrambling up the ladder, he tumbled over a low retaining wall and landed on his knees on the roof. The broad, flat expanse sprouted a sparse thicket of pipes and conduits near its center. The cupolas of half a dozen skylights sat like a row of small garages along the back edge of the roof.

  The uneven asphalt was covered with puddles. An odd collection of refuse littered the tar, probably tossed up by kids. A few beer cans sat in a pile, and broken light bulbs, bottles and assorted tin cans poked up out of the puddles, along with a healthy sample of the local geology.

  Bolan picked his way carefully toward the nearest air vent, a black cylinder two feet in diameter that was topped with a metal lid. Inside, Bolan could just make out the slowly turning blades of the fan, moving in the slight breeze. Leaning close, he listened to the interior of the warehouse, which was just as quiet as it had seemed from the ground.

  The glass of the skylights was grimy, but two of them glowed faintly with a dim light from far below. The warrior tiptoed to the nearer of the two, but he was unable to see anything in the interior. Dampening his hand in a nearby puddle, he rubbed at the dirt, reducing it to a muddy smear. He dipped his hand again, and this time succeeded in rinsing away some of the mud.

  Directly below, columns of pallets poked toward the ceiling. A forklift was just visible in the shadows off to the left. To the right, a block of light lay on the floor, but he was unable to see where it came from. Moving to the next skylight, Bolan cleaned a four-inch circle and found himself staring down into a dimly lit cubicle.

  A man sat in a chair in the center of the cubicle, his head lolling to one side. The Executioner shifted his position a little, enough to see the last few coils of rope that bound the man to his chair. One sleeve of his shirt was dark, possibly bloodstained. Other than the motionless prisoner and his chair, the cubi
cle was empty.

  In an adjoining cubicle, a little more brightly lit than the first, three men huddled in conversation. Two of them sat on a leatherette lounge, the third, standing in front of a desk, stood over them, shaking a finger under their noses. The angle should have made identification impossible, but he had no trouble spotting the bald head and the atrocious lime-green leisure suit. As far as he could tell, the third man was a new player. Bolan moved to the other side of the skylight, hurriedly wiped another peephole, but still couldn't see any of the faces.

  He ran his fingers over the metal edges of the skylight frame, looking for a joint. He knew that at least one of the panels would open outward. If he could find it, he might be able to pry it open. The waterfront side came up empty, and Bolan moved around to the opposite side. The middle panel had a double frame. He tried to get his fingertips between the edges, but the fit was too tight. With a utility knife, he was able to drive the point in far enough to risk trying to pry it free. The blade slipped off the soft metal on his first try, and he drove the point in farther before trying again.

  This time he managed to wedge it open far enough to slip the blade all the way through. As he leaned into the handle, the frame began to squeak open. The warrior held his breath, working the panel with painstaking slowness, a quarter inch at a time. Each time the metal began to protest he had to stop. The panel hadn't been open in a long time, and grit and dirt filled the seam like brittle putty, making it harder to move the glass.

  As the skylight opened farther, he could hear mumbled conversation. The glass was too filthy to see through, and he couldn't afford to take his eyes off the panel to peer through the broadening crack. To make matters worse, some of the grit was beginning to fall into the warehouse, a thin sheet of sand cascading over the freight piled to within ten feet of the ceiling.

  The lock hinges finally clicked, and Bolan could let go of the glass. He dropped to one knee and peered into the gloom below. The men were still talking. Leisure Suit sat behind the desk, waving his arms with short, choppy strokes, their movement a stiff parody of a barroom braggart describing a recent brawl. The warrior tried to catch the words, but they were unintelligible.

  Two of the men stood abruptly, Leisure Suit taking Skinhead by the arm and tugging him toward the door of the twelve-by-twelve cubicle. A moment later both men had disappeared into the shadows. The remaining man, so thin that looking down on him was like staring at the top of a post, slumped in his chair, a grim reminder of the posture of the man in the adjoining cubicle.

  Bolan swung one leg through the opening, letting his weight balance on his hips as he swung the other leg in. Allowing his arms to take the weight, he lowered himself until they were fully extended. He felt for secure footing but couldn't reach the pallets stacked beneath him.

  He was about to let go when he heard the sudden rumble of an engine. He realized one, and perhaps both, of the two men had left the warehouse and had already reached their car.

  He looked back over his shoulder, trying to judge the gap. it looked to be only a couple of feet, not very far. He had no idea how securely the pallets were stacked, how well balanced they might be. If he threw that balance off with his full weight, he could send the whole stack tumbling to the floor, perhaps burying himself in the process.

  As near as he could tell, he was off center. Pushing away from the wall, Bolan let go and braced himself for the impact. His feet went out from under him, and he threw his arms wide to keep himself from rolling off the pallet. The fall knocked the wind out of him, and he lay flat, listening to the echo of his fall bounce back from the far corners of the warehouse.

  Gulping air into his lungs, he scrambled to his knees. Neither man seemed to have heard him. The prisoner remained motionless, while the second man stared at his own hands, as if he, too, were tied to his seat. Bolan peered into the shadowy pit below him. The pallets were banded, and the stack seemed reasonably stable, but getting down wasn't going to be a picnic. Getting down without any additional noise might be out of the question. But he had no choice. He couldn't reach the skylight, and the only way out was through one of the warehouse doors.

  The third man finally moved, getting to his feet and walking toward the cubicle door. Bolan waited until he disappeared, then swung over the side of the tower of freight. Groping with his feet in the darkness, he found the next skid. It offered him a perfect foothold, and he secured both feet, then bent to grab one of the metal bands to steady himself while he felt for the next skid down.

  Five layers down he finally felt the solid floor beneath his feet. He let go and let the floor take his full weight. He felt just a little unstable, like a seaman used to an unsteady foundation suddenly confronted with the weighty motionless of the earth after a year at sea.

  He heard a door latch click and pulled out his Beretta. Setting the weapon for a 3-round burst, he moved toward the nearer of the two cubicles. A door slammed, and the vibration of the cubicle walls rattled glass all over the building. He reached the near corner of the cubicle and reached out with his free hand.

  Easing along the wall, he felt for the doorframe. Just as his fingers closed over the metal molding, he heard a gunshot. It was the last thing he expected. Two more shots echoed through the warehouse as he leaped for the door.

  Wrenching the knob, he nearly tore it loose as the door swung open. Bolan stepped into the room, his eyes adjusting to the changing light. The tall, thin man stood over the prisoner in the chair, his pistol pointing vaguely over the guy's shoulder. He turned as the door slammed into the partition, bringing the gun around slowly, as if he were underwater.

  "Don't!" Bolan warned.

  But the man ignored him. The gun, a Russian-made automatic, continued its lazy arc, and the warrior dived into the small room. He heard the next shot as he was coming out of a roll, brought up the Beretta and squeezed. Each of the three shots found its mark, leaving a ragged line of holes in the man's chest. His gun hand seemed to wave at Bolan as his fingers lost control of the weapon. It tilted forward, pivoting on the loose curl of his trigger finger, then fell. His body followed, collapsing on the floor.

  Bolan stepped over the dead man and knelt next to the chair. The prisoner's head was thrown back, his eyes open but already sightless. An ugly hole, like the socket of a third eye no longer there, stared at Bolan from the center of the man's forehead.

  Starting with the pockets of both dead men, Bolan searched the warehouse, working quickly in case one of the other men should return. Neither body yielded any documents, not even a driver's license. He left the bodies in the dim light and moved into the warehouse proper. Examining the freight by match light, he was stunned to find most of it consisted of weapons, primarily from the Eastern Bloc. There were stacks of Czech-made assault rifles and hundreds of thousands of rounds of ammunition.

  One entire column of pallets contained crates of Soviet RPG-7s, another of grenades, both American M-59s and Yugoslavian M-69s. There was enough to wage a small war. What he couldn't figure out was the connection between an arsenal like this and a drug operation. Most of the cocaine cowboys favored automatic weapons such as Uzis and Ingrams. They were easier to conceal and, at the close range In which most burns took place, were accurate. Assault rifles were for some other kind of war.

  In the second cubicle Bolan rifled the desk. A jumble of papers and notebooks filled the bottom drawer, and he sifted through them. It wasn't possible to make sense out of the crabbed notations, and the ledgers were neat but cryptic. It would take more time than he had at the moment to ferret out any secrets.

  The warrior stacked the papers on top of the desk, then went back to the cavernous storage area. A minute's rummaging turned up a small canvas bag. It was heavy, and when he undid the drawstring he found phosphorous grenades. He dumped most of the grenades onto the floor, sprinted back to the cubicle, crammed the papers into the bag and ran for the door. He'd have to tell Wade about the bodies, but he wanted to piece a few things together before he ma
de the call.

  Chapter Nine

  Emiliano Rivera allowed his body to sink into the soft leather of the chair. Leaning back, he adjusted the earphones more snugly and raised the volume a notch by remote control. The first notes of Chopin's Sonata no. 2 weren't loud enough to suit him, and he bounced the remote button twice more until he had a level he liked. Martha Argerich, the pianist, seemed confident and negotiated the tricky dynamics without apparent effort. It was interesting to hear a woman's approach to music he had always considered to be vigorously masculine-.

  But it was Chopin who was important. Chopin made him think of Paris, and Paris was where he had been happiest. He didn't know why, although he had thought about it often. Perhaps it was simply a matter of geography. Being so far from the turbulence of his native country might have been more soothing than he wanted to believe. But what would that say about his patriotism? Would it mean that, deep down, he loved his country less than he wanted to believe?

  He sank deeper into the chair, letting the music swell around him, wrapping himself in the cascading sonority as if in cloth. He shrugged his shoulders to find the closest fit with the chair, heaved a deep sigh and reached for the television remote. He clicked on the set, then the VCR. The picture squiggled once or twice, then settled down.

  The tape, addressed simply "To General Rivera," had been left on his doorstep several days ago. He had intended to watch it, but something kept interfering. After a while he started to suspect there was some reason he shouldn't watch it. But curiosity was an overwhelming force.

  Fortifying himself with a dose of Chopin, he sucked in his gut and forced himself to watch. The tape started simply, the fuzziness and blurred focus evidence of the amateur status of the photographer. Then, as if someone else had taken control of the camera, the picture became crystal-clear, the camera rock-steady. The cloudless blue sky filled the screen, then trees appeared at the very bottom. As the camera moved slowly earthward, he realized why the tape had been sent to him. His father's house appeared to the left. The cameraman panned left, then zoomed in on the house, as if to say, "Yes, old man, it is what you think it is." As if he had to be reassured.