Backlash

by Don Pendleton

  When he neared the top of the ladder, he crouched to get his body higher without exposing his head to anyone on the roof. The ladder creaked ominously, and he felt the rung under his left foot begin to sink. He shifted his feet, putting his weight on the other end of the rung, and the board stopped shifting. He glanced down and saw that the rung had split. It was starting to tear loose on the left-hand side.

  Bolan held steady, waving to Hoffman again to indicate that he was going to wait for a moment before attempting to gain the roof. He waited what seemed like an eternity, listening intently, but all he heard was a slight sighing of wind in the forest behind the village. There was something unsettling about the silence, as if everything were unnaturally hushed.

  Someone was on the roof. There was no doubt in his mind. He counted in his head, and on five launched himself up and over the low wooden wall. He arched his body in midflight like a pole-vaulter, flattening himself to get just enough lift for the bar. A burst of automatic rifle fire, short and crisp, scratched at the wood just behind him as he fell. Tumbling over the wall, he landed on his stomach.

  He started scrambling across the roof, conscious of his shadow on the white shingles, half rolling to keep the shooter off balance. The roof was almost empty of cover. Two cubes jutted up out of the center of the building. Even as he rolled he saw a door in one of them, the latch dangling loosely in the moonlight, glinting as he moved.

  The other seemed to be unbroken. He reached it just ahead of a second burst. Chips of brick stung him as the chimney splintered. Sparks glowed as the slugs ricocheted off the stone and whined off into the night. Bolan climbed to his feet, crouching to keep his head below the chimney, which came only to his chest. Not much broader than he, it was just enough cover to keep him out of harm's way.

  He dropped to one knee, then pressed closer to the stone. He was thankful he'd picked the right cover, angry that it gave him no offensive advantage. He stuck the muzzle of the CAR-15 out past the edge of the stone, and another burst chewed at the crumbling brick and decaying mortar. One slug glanced off the rifle's barrel, nearly knocking the gun from his grip.

  He had to do something, but was pinned too tightly. With so little cover he couldn't even risk a peek around the edge of the stone. The chimney was so narrow that the gunner could see both sides of it without shifting his gaze more than a degree or two.

  The rifle opened up again, and this time he heard the slugs splintering wood. He glanced toward the sound in time to see the last couple slam into the wooden parapet. Taking advantage of the diversion, he slipped around the chimney, the CAR-15 raking the edge of the other, larger cube.

  The gunner heard his heavy steps and swung his weapon, but Bolan's fire clawed at the wood-and-asphalt edge of the cupola. The guy ducked back out of sight, but Bolan didn't quit. Instead of settling for a standoff on the opposite side of the cupola, the warrior continued around the far side. Hitting the roof in a roll, he came up firing, slicing across the center of the cupola with a 5.56 mm stream.

  He saw the gunner start to turn, half obscured by the edge of the cupola. At the same time another burst, this one from behind, caught the shooter in the back. That burst sliced through the falling body, then gouged holes in the asphalt-covered wood.

  Bolan moved cautiously toward the fallen gunman. Hoffman's head appeared over the wall, and he swung one leg up and over. The warrior knelt beside the body. There was no way the man could be alive, but he checked just to be certain. He yanked the man's rifle out from under the body, a CQ assault rifle, released the clip, checked the chamber, then tossed the rifle aside. It landed with a dull thud against the wooden wall.

  Hoffman leaned over his shoulder. He reached down and turned the shooter's face to the side. In the moonlight the shadows obscured the dead man's features. The CIA agent rolled him onto his back. "Uh-huh," he grunted.

  "Recognize him?" Bolan asked.

  Before Hoffman could answer, a rifle shot cracked behind and below. Bolan jerked around and scrambled to the wall. Rosario's driver lay on the ground behind the jeep. His legs still twitched, but there was no doubt that he was finished. A short man in dark clothing raced toward the jeep, and Bolan braced his rifle on the wooden wall. The little man dodged left and right, and the warrior fired a burst, leading him a little. The clip emptied, and the bolt locked open. The man stopped in his tracks, then cut to the right, diving in behind the vehicle.

  As Bolan released the empty magazine, the man scrambled to his feet and dashed toward the nearest stand of trees. Bolan jammed the new clip into place and sighted just as the running man was swallowed by the shadows.

  "Damn!"

  "Gone?"

  "Into the bush."

  "Don't worry about it," Hoffman said. "I already know who it was."

  Bolan turned to look at him.

  "Felix Vasquez," Hoffman said.

  "How do you know?"

  Hoffman jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the dead man behind him. "Because that's Tommy Arguello. You pinch one, the other says 'Ouch!»

  "Not anymore," Bolan said. "How do you know them?"

  "Because they worked for Vince Arledge…" Hoffman stared at the jungle for a long moment before he added, "We've got to get back to the States. If Arledge sent these guys after Gregory, you can bet he's trying to cover his ass. I have to tell Bartlett about this. One on one. There's a hole in the dike somewhere, and I've got to find it before it's too late for all of us."

  "Arledge?"

  "You bet."

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The flight to Tegucigalpa went smoothly. Rivera sat by himself, staring out the window as the sun began to set. Bolan watched the general with mixed emotions. There was something about the old man that demanded respect, but there was a history that couldn't be denied. It was the history that fascinated Bolan. How could a man with so much intelligence have allowed himself so easily to be used, he wondered.

  The airport was almost deserted, and Bolan felt eyes on him at every turn. He wanted to turn and confront the stares, but felt he would end up whirling like a dervish.

  Their greeting party consisted of Harry Martinson, an aide to the American ambassador. Martinson had dressed down for the occasion in an attempt, as he explained, to avoid calling attention to the general's arrival. As if that were possible in a city where every third person were occupied in keeping an eye on the other two. Bolan suspected Martinson was more than a subaltern of the diplomatic corps, but didn't want to raise the issue so publicly.

  He noticed Bolan watching him, and gave his best State Department smile, but it stopped at his gums. The eyes behind it were as hard as marbles. They glittered with a cold light that the warrior knew only too well.

  "Follow me, gentlemen, if you will," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on Bolan's face as if waiting for the big man to challenge him. The Executioner grunted and grabbed his bag. He'd dealt with the type before and, no doubt, would again. There would be time enough to take Mr. Martinson down a peg or two.

  Rivera seemed distracted. He swiveled his head this way and that, trying to take the terminal in one continuous survey. He seemed on the verge of saying something, then caught himself. He glanced at Bolan, noticed the big man had been watching him and smiled. "It's been a long time," he said. "I came through here on the way to Miami. It wasn't so quiet, then."

  "I'll bet," Bolan said without smiling back.

  Martinson led the way through a side door, past the customs office. He nodded toward it as they passed. "No need to trouble ourselves with red tape," he said. "And I should apologize for the ambassador. He's out of the country at the moment."

  "How convenient," Bolan said.

  "The ambassador's a very busy man. You have no idea how complicated things can get, even in a backwater like Honduras."

  "That's not particularly diplomatic of you," Bolan pointed out.

  "The people here have no illusions," Martinson said, giving Bolan another of those arctic sneers. "Without us they'd
be up the creek without a canoe or a paddle. And they're well aware of it."

  "I'll bet you're not backward about reminding them, either."

  Martinson spun around, stopping in his tracks. His right hand moved toward his suit coat, then stopped just short of the lapel. "Look, buddy, I don't know who you are, but I don't have to take that kind of shit. I have a job to do. Why don't you keep your contempt in check long enough to let me get it done? Then you and I can talk it over when it doesn't matter which of us comes out on top."

  "Suits me," Bolan replied with a shrug. "But why don't you keep that arrogant condescension under wraps?"

  "Gentlemen," Rivera said, "aren't we all on the same side?"

  "I'm not sure," Bolan said.

  "Then let's try to get along. After all, I won't be in Tegucigalpa that long and neither will Mr. Belasko. I think we can all keep our tempers under control for twenty-four hours."

  The glitter seemed to disappear from behind Martinson's eyes. He turned away, then resumed his quick shuffle toward a rear door. He hit the steel panel with his shoulder, shoving it wide open. It slammed back against the wall with a loud clap, and Bolan had to reach out and grab Rivera by the arm to prevent him from barging out right behind Martinson.

  "Hold on, General. Let me go first."

  Rivera smiled. "You're very contentious today. And more than a little suspicious."

  "That's what I'm here for, General. You're not king of the prom, you know."

  "Fate has no politics, Mr. Belasko."

  "Maybe not, but it has helpers every now and then. I won't argue with fate, General, but I'll be damned if I'll stand around and let somebody give it a hand."

  "I appreciate your dedication."

  "Don't."

  "I know you don't approve of me."

  "You don't understand why, though, and that's what bothers me."

  "On the contrary, I understand perfectly. I suppose that's why I…"

  "Gentlemen, let's go, please," Martinson interrupted. "You'll have plenty of time after we get you tucked in for the night."

  Rivera stared at Bolan for a moment, as if deciding whether he wanted to complete his thought. Then, with a sad smile, he shook his head and turned to Martinson. "You're right, of course."

  Bolan stepped outside and took a quick look. There was nothing but empty space as far as he could see. The terminal was only two stories high in this area, and he watched the roofline for a minute, then jerked open the door of the waiting limousine. "Okay," he said.

  Rivera moved quickly, ducking into the car with a grace that suggested it was a movement with which he was long familiar.

  Bolan climbed in after him and locked the door. He made sure the far door was locked, then waited for Martinson to climb into the front passenger seat. The driver had the car in motion before Martinson managed to buckle his seat belt.

  During the ride no one spoke. Martinson sat with one arm on the back of his seat, half turned toward the rear as if he wanted to keep an eye on Rivera. The general, for his part, leaned close to the tinted glass, and Bolan thought he might have fallen asleep.

  "Where are we going?" Bolan asked.

  "Don't worry, sport, it's safe."

  "I'm supposed to worry."

  The car rolled smoothly over the road, and Bolan leaned back against the seat. An occasional car passed in the opposite direction, its headlights momentarily filling the limo with light, then sweeping past with a rumble. The road ahead was pitch-black, as if they were speeding through a tunnel. After a half hour Bolan spotted a dim glow far down the road. As they drew closer, he realized an entire hillside was brightly lit. The closer they came, the more detail leaped out at him.

  At the bottom of the hill a stone wall, topped with clay-colored tiles, disappeared in both directions. A twin row of trees wound upward, zigzagging half the width of the hill, and disappeared into a grove of trees. Above the grove Bolan caught a glimpse of the reddish tiles of a tall, broad building. Then, as they drew still closer, the car roof obscured his view. He ducked forward, but the house was no longer visible.

  Two coils of razor wire encircled the wall, anchored to steel posts cemented in place atop the pilasters. A heavy gate stood just to the left of center, and the limo slowed as it rolled toward the opening. In one corner of the compound, half hidden by a stand of trees, Bolan spotted the dull ivory of a parabolic antenna. The driver lowered his window to identify himself to a pair of sentries, then cranked the window back up, tapping the steering wheel impatiently as the guards opened the gate.

  "This is it," Martinson announced. "The ambassador's residence."

  "I've been here before," Rivera said, startling both Bolan and the aide. "But it wasn't so inhospitable-looking in those days."

  "Certain precautions are necessary. It's not like the old days. General."

  "It never was, I suppose. We just didn't know any better."

  The car passed through the gate, the driver moving slowly to allow for a series of speed bumps in the asphalt. The car jounced with every one, making conversation difficult. Since none of the men seemed inclined to talk, they listened to the creaking of the heavy limo's suspension.

  When the car stopped at the front entrance, Martinson jumped out first, and the driver opened the door for Rivera. "Let's get you settled, General," he said, leaving Bolan to fend for himself. At the top of the broad stairway Rivera turned and waited.

  When the big man joined him on the flagstone patio, Rivera said, "I suppose we'll be safe here for one night?"

  "I suppose so," Bolan grunted.

  Martinson led the way in, nodding to an attendant standing on tiptoe, ready to pounce as soon as he was given the word. Martinson ended the suspense. "Juan, please show the general to his suite." The small man nodded vigorously, wrenching Rivera's arm in his haste to take the general's bag.

  Juan tugged on Rivera's sleeve, half dragging him toward a marble staircase. Bolan watched the two men ascend, then turned to Martinson. "We should talk."

  Martinson nodded. "Follow me." He turned on his heel and moved through an open doorway on the left.

  Bolan followed. He found himself in a lavishly appointed study. Bookshelves occupied two walls, and a massive desk stood at the far end of the room. Martinson closed the door and indicated a pair of chairs in one corner. "Have a seat."

  Bolan nodded, set his bag on the floor and dropped into one of the big easy chairs. He waited for Martinson to begin, his head tilted to one side, his eyes trying to read the aide. But Martinson was so stiff that it wasn't possible to know what he was thinking.

  The ambassador's aide dropped into the second chair. "You should know this isn't my idea," he began. "I don't like Rivera, and I think the whole operation is nuts."

  Bolan shook his head. "Look, what we think is beside the point, isn't it?"

  "Not to me. I've spent four years trying to piece things together down here. I think it's a pity they've turned away from Guillermo Pagan."

  Bolan filed that one away for future reference. "Rivera's more tractable, and he's supposed to be more acceptable to the Nicaraguans. At least that's the theory."

  "I know all that shit, but Rivera's not hard enough. When Ortega goes down, there's going to be a mad scramble to take his place. Rivera's not up to it."

  "Goes down?" Bolan said.

  "Don't be naive. What did you expect, a graceful resignation followed by a convention full of balloons and placards?"

  "I was led to believe Rivera was going to spearhead a popular resistance movement and put pressure on the Sandinistas. He thinks he's here to open up the electoral process, to make himself available for the plebiscite."

  "Is that what he told you?"

  "That's what they told him."

  "And you both believed it? Christ almighty… schoolboys, both of you."

  "When?"

  "Three days…"

  "That's not much time."

  "How long does it take?"

  Chapter Twenty-Seven
r />   Bolan stood on the rear porch, watching the sun come up. It was only six o'clock, but he'd already been up for two hours. Tossing all night long, restless and nagged by a dozen nameless worries, he had lain there in the strange bed, reacting to every random sound. Twice he'd reached for his gun. Twice he'd gone back to bed, and still he couldn't sleep.

  Now, with the chopper due any minute to ferry him and Rivera to the staging area, he wondered where the next threat would come from. He felt certain that Martinson was a blip on his radar screen. The guy had an edge, and he had those eyes that peered out at the world as if everything in it were designed specifically to annoy him. Martinson didn't like Rivera. That was plain enough. What was less obvious was why.

  Bolan was convinced that Martinson was CIA. There was too much of the gunslinger in the ersatz diplomat for it to be otherwise. And in normal circumstances that would be enough to keep him in line. But the Agency was anything but monolithic. The real question was which half Martinson belonged to. Clearly he was a Pagan advocate. Whether he knew about the drug running was a toss-up, but Bolan wouldn't bet against it. He'd have to tell Hoffman to look into it.

  The door behind him opened, and Bolan turned to see Rivera step out onto the patio. He nodded but said nothing. Already dressed for the trip in fatigues that looked lived in, Rivera looked faintly silly, like someone's grandfather ready for a masquerade ball. All that was missing was the mask. The old man was trim, and looked fit, but the loose clothing hid much of that, leaving the eye to concentrate on the slightly jowly face and the hint of sagging flesh at the collar line.

  The general ignored Bolan and shambled to a corner of the patio to lean out over the rail. He seemed to be studying the neatly tailored gardens sloping away from the house, broken only by the asphalt apron of the helipad, then rolling on uninterrupted to the tree line at the base of the hill. Bolan looked down among the trees, where the razor wire shredded the sun's red light into shimmering bands. The wire moved gently in the slight breeze, and the fractured light seemed to throb like blood in stainless-steel arteries.