Backlash

by Don Pendleton

  "Be right there, Pedro."

  Monzon squatted on the floor next to the briefcases. He heard shuffling feet in the shadows. A flashlight clicked on against the wall, and he turned. "You guys can leave as soon as Vinnie gets back."

  Kelly materialized behind the torch. "Piece of cake, huh?" he said, shifting the sling on the CAR-15 draped over his shoulder.

  "Why not?" Monzon laughed. Two more men appeared and stood behind Kelly. Both of them carried automatic rifles. They all turned as headlights appeared in the open freight bay. The car sped toward them, skidded in a tight turn, then doused its lights. The men scattered like frightened birds.

  Dirt and papers showered down around them. Monzon jumped up, brushing himself off and cursing. "Damn it, Vinnie! What the hell's wrong with you, man? You could have killed us all."

  Arledge climbed out of the car, laughing like a loon. "Shit, Pedro. Just having a little fun's all. You got to kick back, man. Chill the fuck out, you know?"

  "I'll chill you out if you try that again." He turned to Kelly. "You guys can split. I'll try to talk a little sense into Vincenzo. I'll talk to you later."

  "You sure you're okay, man?" Kelly asked.

  Monzon nodded.

  "Whatever you say, Pedro." Kelly shrugged, then eased back into the shadows. His two sidekicks followed him into the darkness.

  Monzon didn't say anything until he heard a car start outside. When the noise of the engine died away, he shook Arledge by the shoulders. "Man, what is with you? All that shit I told you earlier. Did you think I was kidding? Didn't you understand what I was trying to tell you?"

  "I heard you, man. Don't worry about it. I'll be all right."

  "Vinnie, I can't carry you much longer, man. You've got to pull yourself together. You want to get your ass in a sling, okay by me. But I don't want to go down with you."

  "I said I'm okay, damn it. Now back off." Arledge turned away and walked toward the car. "Let's get out of here, man."

  "You better let me drive, Vinnie."

  "Suit yourself." Arledge crossed to the passenger door and climbed into the car. He slammed the door shut and sat there with his hands folded in his lap. The Galil sat across his knees, and Monzon reached in and took the rifle, tossing it and his own into the trunk. He set the briefcases on the floor of the trunk, slammed the lid and got behind the driver's seat.

  As Monzon reached for the ignition, Arledge said, "I think I'd rather drive, amigo."

  "Forget it!"

  "I said I'd rather drive." Monzon turned to look at his friend in annoyance. His expression changed when he saw the pistol. "Vinnie, quit it now. Just stop fooling around. I'm tired of this shit."

  "Me, too, amigo. Me, too." He squeezed the trigger.

  The shot sounded impossibly loud in the interior of the car. He saw Monzon's head snap to one side, then slump forward. He reached for Monzon's throat and felt for a pulse. There was none.

  Arledge shook his head. "I'm sorry, man. I really am." With his thumbs he gently, almost tenderly, closed Monzon's staring eyes. "But I'm getting too old for this shit. I've got to look out for myself, Pedro. Do you understand, man?"

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Bolan checked his watch. Hoffman was restless and kept pacing in a tight circle.

  "I hate this crap," he muttered. "I don't like it and I never have."

  "It'll be quick and painless," Bolan assured him.

  "Easy for you to say. But I have a funny feeling. Arledge has blown this op wide open. Either that or something's going on that we don't know about."

  "Take it easy, Gil. We're here, and there's nothing we can do about it. We'll get the job done and be in the air in three hours."

  "Maybe. But Gregory was in the air when this all started. It didn't help him much, did it?"

  "What, exactly, do you think is going on?"

  "It's a gut feeling. Nothing I can spell out in so many words, but I've been in this game a long time. Too long, really. And after a while you learn to pay attention when your antennae twitch."

  "What's your read on Arledge?"

  "What's to read? The man is a typical cowboy. Power monger, really. But he's become unglued. He got too close to Pagan. I don't know how or why. It could be that Psychology 101 bullshit, identification or whatever. The company's full of assholes like that."

  "You're sure he's in bed with Pagan?"

  "No doubt about it, man. I saw it with my own eyes. And there's no way it was some kind of deep cover thing, getting next to the geek to burn him. He's on the team. Plain and simple."

  "What about Bartlett?"

  "Oh, hell, I don't know. Old money and all that. Tweed and horses. It's a goddamn game to guys like that. All they see is duty and kicks. Only they're too goddamn genteel to admit they get off on the power trip. So it's all theory and old glory."

  "But you don't have any reason to suspect him of anything worse than ideological zeal, enlightened or otherwise?"

  "Look, in this business you do your job or you cover your ass. You don't do both because it's not possible. Every decision you make, if you're paying attention to details, you're putting your ass in a sling if you fuck up. A guy who never got his wrist slapped hasn't been doing his job. Arledge hasn't been doing his job. Plain and simple. He's telling the jerks at Langley and the NSC what they want to hear."

  Bolan shrugged, started to respond, then held a hand up. "Listen, do you hear that?"

  "Yeah, that must be Rosario. It better be, anyhow." He backed away from the road, easing himself, butt first, into the dense foliage on the far side of a ditch.

  Bolan leaped across the ditch and ducked down behind a water-soaked frond. The water showered down over his knees as he inched forward to keep an eye on the dirt road.

  A moment later headlights stabbed through the mist as a jeep rounded a curve and careened into the long straightaway approaching the crossroads. The headlights meant that it was an army jeep, because no one, no farmer and not even the most foolhardy of the contra teams would dare use headlights in the middle of the night.

  The vehicle slowed, its thick tires sucking at the muddy puddles filling the rutted dirt road. It stopped dead center in the middle of the crossroads, and a young Sandinista officer jumped down into the mud. The engine continued to run, but the headlights went dark. Bolan and Hoffman waited. Rosario was supposed to use a password, and they weren't going to expose themselves until they heard it.

  Rosario lit a cigarette, then muttered something to the driver of the jeep. The driver replied, then gunned the engine, driving on through the intersection and coasting past the hiding men. Hoffman nudged Bolan, pointing to the .50-caliber machine gun mounted in the middle of the back seat. Rosario called out, "Hola, gringos. Como es Jim Baker?"

  Bolan turned to Hoffman and whispered, "Jim Baker?"

  "It wasn't my idea," Hoffman answered. He straightened and pushed through the undergrowth. "Lieutenant Rosario, over here."

  The young officer seemed startled by Hoffman's voice. He spun quickly, almost losing his footing in the slick mud. Hoffman walked toward him, conscious of the jeep fifty yards behind him, and even more conscious of the M-50 mounted in the rear of the vehicle.

  Rosario moved warily. Bolan stayed behind, a CAR-15 in his hands. He kept the rifle trained on the Nicaraguan, and Hoffman was careful to avoid the direct line of fire. Rosario, too, seemed to realize the CIA man wasn't alone. He glanced nervously toward the bushes to Bolan's right, then at Hoffman, then back at the bushes.

  "Do you have the money?" Rosario asked.

  Hoffman nodded. He reached into his jacket and jerked out an envelope. He handed it to Rosario and said, "That's a down payment. You get the rest when we pick up Gregory."

  Rosario reached for the envelope, backing off a step at the same time. "That wasn't the deal."

  "It is now. You can't expect us to give you the whole thing up front. That's just a good-faith down payment. Don't worry. You'll get the rest as soon as we get Gregory."
/>   "The papers?"

  Hoffman shook his head. "After we get Gregory."

  "I don't like it, señor."

  "I've got news for you, Lieutenant. I don't like it, either. But you're new at this. You get used to it, if you live long enough."

  Rosario flinched, then let his right hand drop to the holstered automatic on his hip. "It is not good to joke about such things."

  "I'm not, Lieutenant. Believe me, I'm not."

  Rosario seemed uncertain how to take it. He backed away another step, the cigarette still dangling from one corner of his mouth. He thumbed open the envelope, riffling the bills quickly, then repeated the rough count. He seemed satisfied, tucked the envelope into the thigh pocket of his fatigue pants and waved to the jeep. Hoffman heard the transmission whine and backed toward the side of the road, keeping one eye on Rosario and one on the muddy ground.

  The jeep coasted to a halt, and Rosario climbed into the rear jump seat. He indicated that Hoffman should take the passenger seat in front, but the CIA agent waited. Rosario draped his left arm over the M-50, as if to make a point, and Hoffman laughed. "Lieutenant, you've been watching too many cowboy movies."

  "Not at all, señor. It is just that there are too many cowboys in Nicaragua. One must be adaptable, no?"

  "Not a bad idea." Rosario turned to see who had spoken and rose halfway out of his seat. He stopped when he saw Bolan, the CAR-15 directed toward him in a manner that was indirect but more than accidental.

  "So, norteamericano cowboys come in pairs. Just like in the movies."

  Bolan stepped toward the jeep, and Rosario moved to the far side of the M-50. Hoffman took the seat vacated by the lieutenant, and Bolan climbed into the passenger seat, the assault rifle resting on his lap. The driver glanced at the big man sitting beside him, then down at the trigger guard, where Bolan's finger curled lightly over the trigger.

  "The road is very bumpy, señor" he said, nodding toward the rifle.

  "Then you better drive carefully, compadre," Bolan replied.

  "Sí, señor, I will."

  He turned on the headlights and threw the jeep into gear. Rosario watched Bolan cautiously, as if he sensed that it was the big man who was the greater threat. Hoffman reached up and clicked the safety on the M-50. "Not a good idea to leave that off," he said. "You never know what might happen."

  "That's why the safety was off, señor. Strange things happen in the jungle."

  "How far?" Hoffman grunted.

  Rosario shrugged. "Not far, maybe ten kilometers."

  "Why are you doing this, Lieutenant? You're not supposed to be interested in money. You're supposed to be an idealist."

  "Idealism is expensive. I didn't know that until it was too late to change my mind."

  "What decided you?"

  "When Daniel Ortega visited New York and brought back thousands of dollars worth of eyeglass frames. Expensive frames, 'designer' frames. I realized then that there are all kinds of bad vision. No glasses would cure mine."

  "Hey, lighten up, Rosario. Even idealists should look sharp, don't you think?"

  "They should see sharply, not look. I have a family. And your contrarrevolucionarios are not particular who they shoot."

  "Were your people?"

  Rosario didn't answer right away. Bolan stopped listening to the argument. It was one neither man could win. He tapped his knee with his free hand, scanning the foliage on either side of the road ahead. The jeep rocked through the ruts, the driver glancing from time to time at Bolan's lap, then shaking his head. Each time he looked, the finger was still there, still curled.

  A small village popped up out of nowhere, a shabby collection of ramshackle buildings that seemed to stand only because there was no wind blowing. The jeep slowed abruptly, and the driver killed his lights, glancing at Rosario to make certain he had done the right thing. The lieutenant nodded.

  "This is it?" Hoffman asked.

  "This is it." Rosario tapped the driver on the back, and he nudged the jeep ahead, its tires sucking loudly in the mud.

  "So where is he?"

  Rosario ignored the question. He jumped down from the jeep and swaggered toward an abandoned butcher shop. The paint on the sign had half peeled away, but it was still possible to read the letters Carnicería. A low boardwalk, as gray as the rest of the wood in the village, ran the width of the butcher shop. Rosario clomped onto the boardwalk and rapped on the weather-beaten door.

  Bolan stepped out of the jeep and moved around to the driver's side. The butcher shop door swung open, its ancient hinges creaking in the humid air. Rosario stepped aside and three men filed out. Bolan realized immediately that the man in the middle had to be Tony Gregory. He towered over the other two, both of whom carried the ubiquitous Soviet assault rifles.

  Rosario spoke softly to one of the two guards, and Gregory looked around in bewilderment. The guard nodded, said something to his companion and veered off to the left. They disappeared around the side of the building, and a moment later an engine roared into life. A jeep raced around the corner and headed back the way Rosario had come.

  The lieutenant reached into his pocket, and Bolan tensed. A black box, with a small red light winking on and off, sat in Rosario's palm. He covered the red light for a second, then yanked a small antenna out of the box. Bolan started to move toward him and stopped when a brilliant flash pierced the haze. A moment later a tremendous clap of thunder echoed through the trees. The warrior hit the deck, dragging Hoffman to the ground with him.

  Rosario cackled. "It is nothing," he said. "Just part of my alibi."

  Bolan started to get up, when a rifle cracked high and to his left. Gregory stumbled, falling on his face in the mud. The Executioner rolled to the left, his eyes searching for the location of the shooter. Hoffman scrambled to his feet and dived into the jeep.

  Rosario stood rooted to the spot. He stared at Gregory, lying motionless in the mud. "It was not me. I swear. It was not…" A second rifle shot cut him off in midsentence. The slug caught him high on the back of the head, splitting his skull and spattering little chunks of gray matter into the puddles.

  Bolan started toward the downed pilot as Hoffman raked the roofline with the M-50. Before he could reach Gregory, a third shot made the pilot jerk.

  The warrior took one look and knew the pilot was dead.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Bolan raced toward the abandoned hotel. It was the only two-story building in the village and the most likely spot for an assassin. Behind him he could hear Hoffman's M-50 hammering away. He was worried that the assassin might have backup.

  The warrior put his shoulder against the door and shoved. He heard the screws groan in the old wood, but the door refused to yield all the way. He stepped back, keeping his eye on the roofline above him, and planted a boot squarely over the lock.

  This time the double doors flew open. Bolan pressed back against the wall and peered into the darkness. He signaled to Hoffman that he was going in, and the man waved. The M-50 opened up again, raking the wooden parapet along the edge of the roof and showering splinters on Bolan's shoulders as he dived through the yawning door. Hoffman ceased fire, and Bolan could hear the squeaks of frightened rodents in the dark.

  He stayed against a wall and waited until his eyes adjusted to the gloom. The room gradually filled with sculptured shadows. He could make out the outlines of scattered chairs, and a blocky bulk against a far wall. It took him a second to realize that it was probably the front desk.

  He inched forward until he reached a corner. Litter crinkled underfoot with a damp rustle, and the floorboards felt spongy under his weight. Working along the second wall, he bumped into something about knee-high. He bent to feel it, recognized it as an ottoman and stepped past.

  At the next corner he found a stairway and eased along the railing until he found the first step. The stairs were covered with papers and cardboard. His eyes had adjusted now, and it was possible to make out the wall above the first landing. The second f
light led up at right angles.

  Bolan stopped to listen for a moment. He was moving more quickly now, realizing that the assassins would have scouted their fire station and would know which way to run. He hoped Hoffman had sense enough to get to the back of the building in case there was a fire escape leading down from the roof, although he doubted it.

  He was in the mouth of a hallway, but it was too dark to see anything except at the far end, where an uncurtained window glowed dimly under its coat of grime. There had to be a way to narrow the odds. As near as he could remember, none of the second-floor windows had been open, which meant the gunner had to have been on the roof.

  But how had he gotten up there?

  Bolan felt the wall with one hand until he found a door. He positioned himself squarely in front of it, kicked it open and ducked out of the way. The slam of the door against the inside wall seemed to rattle the whole building. The warrior stayed low as he crossed the threshold. Another window, this one in the back wall, caught his attention immediately. The window was closed and latched from the inside. He rubbed the dirty glass. A scaffolding of some kind was just visible below the window. He undid the latch and raised the sash, pulling slowly to muffle the sound.

  He leaned out cautiously. The wooden structure, not really a scaffold but some sort of makeshift terrace, ran the entire width of the building. At the far end a ladder leaned against the wail, leading up to the roof. Bolan spotted Hoffman standing just off the corner, a CAR-15 in his hand. By hand, he signaled his intention, then climbed through the window as Hoffman stepped out from the wall far enough to give him a clear shot at the roofline.

  Once on the shaky wooden platform, Bolan glanced up at the roofline, looking for any sign that someone was up there. When he saw nothing, he moved quietly but quickly along the rickety scaffolding. At the bottom of the ladder he paused. Then, holding the rifle ahead of him, his finger on the trigger, Bolan started up. The ladder was a hastily built contraption of two-by-fours nailed together with spikes. The spikes gleamed in the moonlight, evidence that they hadn't been exposed to the elements for more than a day or two at the most. Anything longer and they would already have begun to rust. Bolan wasn't sure whether that was a good sign or not.