The night could be his friend, his shelter. Enemies who sought him in the darkness might discover more than they had bargained for.
A noose was closing in Algiers, a hangman's harness snugging tight around the savage throat. A grim, relentless Executioner was ready now to spring the trap.
And there was nothing left to do but wait.
* * *
Rani knew the city after dark. He was a creature of the streets, familiar with their perils and rewards, at home among the denizens of darkness. Lately, though, the friendly night had undergone a change... and in place of his confidence, he now encountered fear.
A new and lethal presence was emerging in Algiers. He could not attach a name or face to it, but Rani recognized the danger. Worse, he had been put in charge of its elimination, ordered to repair the damage and prevent its spread throughout the city. If he failed...
Rani double-checked the action of his Walther automatic pistol. He withdrew the magazine, verified the load, replaced it and pumped the slide to chamber a 9mm round. The pistol's weight was reassuring in his fist.
Armand had ordered him to bring LaMancha in alive, and Rani meant to do his best. But there were other dangers in the dark, and he was prepared for all of them. He did not intend to die for the cartel.
If it came to killing, Rani would rely upon his crew — a score of thugs and cutthroats. He had used them all before, when there was need of muscle on the streets, and they were waiting for him now behind the tavern.
It was a hunting party, and the prey was Frank LaMancha. Rani recognized a case of overkill, but he was playing safe. The quarry would not slip away from him because he had arrived shorthanded. He would try to reason with LaMancha, but if the American would not listen, he would smother him.
Rani had his doubts that LaMancha was the sniper who had struck at el-Biar. It made no sense for him to offer warnings in advance if he was planning an offensive of his own. And as for motive...
No, it seemed more likely that another enemy had followed the American to Rani and Armand. LaMancha was an opportunist, seeking profit from the troubles in America, but violence had pursued him to Algiers.
Rani had left Amal in charge of operations at the club. The Tuareg was his hole card, too valuable to risk, and Rani wanted him available in case of any trouble. He had enough troops to handle Frank LaMancha.
A private exit brought him to the alleyway. A line of cars awaited him, his Citroën at the point, and every gunner present was alert to his approach. Some of them were smoking; the smell of hashish was oppressive in the narrow alley.
Rani scowled, but kept his anger to himself. He would accomplish nothing by lecturing the troops. The damage had been done; there was no time for any change of plans or substitution in the ranks.
He would have to watch them closely now. Some of them were nervous, trigger-happy at the best of times, and they might kill LaMancha if they imagined any danger to themselves. Armand was adamant in his desire to question the American, and it was Rani's job to bring him back alive.
Rani took a seat beside the Citroën's driver, nodding to the gunners in the rear, and issued orders to go to the Orient. The little caravan started, vehicles running in tandem through the winding streets.
They reached the Orient and parked in front of the hotel. Rani huddled with his troops, selecting half a dozen to accompany him inside, detailing others to surround the aging structure. The guards outside would prevent LaMancha from escaping if he managed to evade the spearhead. No American would cross their line without a pass from Rani.
When all guns were in position, Rani led his main contingent through the double doors, across a musty lobby toward the stairs. A call placed earlier had given him LaMancha's room number, and now the Arab took his force directly to the target area.
Upstairs, the Orient looked older, more dilapidated than its public face. The carpet was discolored, bald in spots, and faded tapestries were hung strategically to mask stains on the walls. A smell of dust and dampness was pervasive, almost overpowering.
Rani led his team along the dingy corridor until they reached the door of Frank LaMancha's room. A light was visible beneath the door; suspended from the tarnished knob, a sign advised that the occupant was not to be disturbed.
Rani retreated to an alcove twenty paces down the corridor. He slipped a hand inside his jacket and withdrew the Walther, gesturing with it toward the door.
His men could take the point and bring LaMancha out. If something happened, if it fell apart, Rani would be waiting in the plug position with his pistol primed and ready. Just in case.
And privately, he could acknowledge that it would be safer where he was, beyond the line of fire.
Always, Rani was a cautious man. His soldiers had their weapons out, a ring of flesh and steel outside LaMancha's door. One gunner knocked, waited, received no answer and tried again without result. Rani, at his post, experienced a sudden chill, the fleeting premonition of disaster. When the ranking gunman looked to him for guidance, he swallowed hard and nodded.
Momentary hesitation as the ranks were closed, then a boot heel slammed against the door. The locking mechanism splintered, flew apart; the way was open, gunners crowded into the room and out of Rani's sight. Excited voices were suddenly devoured by a smoky thunderclap.
A ball of hungry flame erupted from the doorway of LaMancha's room, expelling human wreckage in a grisly rush. Deafened, Rani staggered under the force of the shock wave, certain that the old hotel was coming down around him. Plaster sifted down and mingled with the acrid smoke of battle, threatening to choke him.
Rani shouted to his soldiers, but there was no answer in the charnel house. His men were dead or dying, fodder for the spreading fire, and there was nothing he could do to help them.
But LaMancha...
Rani had to satisfy himself, prepare an answer for Armand. He left the shelter of his niche, proceeding down the corridor on trembling legs. The Walther probed ahead of him, alert to any challenge from the ruins.
He was halfway to the door when automatic weapons' fire erupted in the street below. Frantic, frightened shouting, other weapons answering, and in an instant he could hear the sounds of open warfare, rising through the shattered windows of LaMancha's room.
The Arab felt his stomach turning over. He knew he had walked into a trap.
Cursing, Rani pounded back along the hallway. He stumbled, but caught himself against the bannister. His pulse was hammering, hot breath rasping in his throat before he reached the lobby. Rani felt as if he might explode at any moment.
He had to join his men before it was too late.
Disgusted with himself, the Arab knew he might have already missed his chance.
10
In the blacksuit, Bolan had been crouching in a shadowed doorway opposite the Orient, the Beretta 93-R in its leather snug beneath his arm; the silver AutoMag, Big Thunder, rode his hip on military webbing. As his head weapon, Bolan had selected the lethal Uzi submachine gun. Hand grenades and extra magazines for all three weapons ringed his waist in O.D. canvas rigging.
He had waited for an hour in the shadows before the four-car caravan pulled in front of his hotel. A force of twenty soldiers piled out onto the street. Rani called his troops together on the curb, conversing with them briefly, rattling off some last-minute instructions. Bolan could not overhear his words but knew what he was saying. Considering the target, their strategy was obvious. They would bottle up the exits and dispatch a penetration team to bring their quarry out, alive or dead.
They had the numbers now, but Rani's timing was all wrong; his prey had already slipped out of the trap and doubled back on the enemy.
The hunters had become the hunted.
Rani's troops peeled off, some disappearing down an alley to the right of the hotel, others circling around the corner, moving out to plug the back door. Half a dozen took up station on the street beside the cars, an equal number followed Rani through the double doors.
&nb
sp; Bolan knew the spearhead force would be upstairs in moments, ready to corral LaMancha in his lair, but they were in for a surprise.
The Executioner started counting, running down the numbers in his mind and waiting for the signal that his company had arrived. One hand found the radio-remote transceiver at his waist, beside the holstered AutoMag. Any moment now...
Rani's infantry was slack, undisciplined. As Bolan watched them, half the frontal force drifted off the mark, returned to the cars. Three of them climbed into a Fiat four-door and settled down to wait in comfort for their leader. Matches flared, and in another moment they were passing cigarettes around.
Waiting in the darkness, Bolan smiled. He could smell hashish. In ancient times, a band of murderers had used the drug to give themselves artificial courage, and these cutthroats — hashashim — had contributed the term "assassin" to the lexicon of mayhem. Bolan knew that hash and sentry duty were a lethal mixture for the user. He had seen enough of it in Nam, and the end results were always grisly.
At his waist, the miniature receiver chirped, a low metallic note announcing that the enemy had breached his door upstairs. Bolan keyed the detonator, sending a silent emissary beaming across the street to close the trap.
A brilliant flash of light, the muffled crump of the explosion, and his window shattered, spewing glass and masonry into the street below. The blast was followed by a ragged, choking scream. Flames leapt, rapidly consuming flesh and furnishings.
On the street, Rani's troops were startled from their torpor. Those still on foot were dodging through a rain of shattered glass and rubble, cursing, seeking cover from the deadly shower. The group of smokers in the Fiat were scrambling out of the car, shouting to their comrades on the curb, when Bolan launched his second-phase offensive.
On the driver's side of the Fiat, a lanky button man was hauling out a broom-handle Mauser from beneath his baggy jacket. Bolan took him with a short, precision Uzi-burst that picked the gunner off his feet and laid him out across the Fiat's hood. A tremor gripped the dying flesh, then stopped forever.
The troops were wide awake to danger, but uncertain of their enemy's position.
Concentrating on the crew beside the Fiat, Bolan drove them under cover with a probing burst, exploding safety glass into a thousand pebbled fragments. He was tracking on, the Uzi seeking other game before the enemy appeared to spot his sniper's nest.
A pair of soldiers spotted him, and they were moving in opposite directions, wrestling on the run with hidden hardware. Bolan chose the gunman to his left, the Uzi swinging smoothly into target acquisition. He was already squeezing off the deadly message when he found the man and held him in the submachine-gun's sights.
The Uzi shuddered; Bolan felt the lethal powers flowing through his arms and out the muzzle of his weapon. He could see the bullets shredding fabric, boring through in search of flesh and blood. A crimson torrent geysered out of the dying guncock.
The second gunner saw his partner die, and he faltered, frozen in his tracks. He had a pistol out, pumping lead in Bolan's general direction, but the rounds were going wide.
Bolan goosed the Uzi, rattling off a short burst at thirty yards. The gunner's skull exploded into bloody fragments. The Executioner tracked on in search of other hollow men.
Survivors huddling behind the Fiat were unlimbering their weapons, homing in on the Executioner. Hostile rounds were coming closer, snapping past him, chipping plaster overhead. One gunner had an assault rifle — a Kalashnikov, by the sound — and he was eating up the night around Bolan.
He huddled closer to the wall and held the Uzi's trigger down, 9mm bullets probing for a hot spot on the Fiat. He found it, and the fuel tank exploded thunderously, a ball of flame enveloping the squat Italian roadster. Bolan heard the gunners screaming as they fried.
A flaming gunman sprang and made his break, a human comet. Bolan let him go and concentrated on his own predicament. He prepared to make his move.
A lake of burning gasoline was spreading underneath the line of cars, and there were seconds left before they all went up in sequence. It was time to speed up the process. Bolan sprang a frag grenade from his harness, yanked the pin and let it fly with a soaring overhand delivery.
The deadly metal egg impacted on a fender, bounced once and exploded in the air, taking a dark sedan along with it. A second grenade was in the air before his first one detonated, and the stunning double blast consigned the string of vehicles to hell.
Bolan took advantage of the conflagration, breaking cover, firing as he ran. The Uzi emptied, and he ditched the useless magazine, feeding his stutter gun a fresh one on the run. Behind the dancing flames, survivors were intent on scrambling for safety, and the warrior stitched a line of parabellum manglers through the ranks to help them on their way. Some of them had reached the alley's mouth and were seeking sanctuary there when they collided with their reinforcements and were driven back into the battle zone.
Rani's flankers had arrived to join the carnage. Lured by the sounds of war, they stumbled into chaos and were momentarily dazed, unable to believe their eyes.
The Executioner announced his presence with a blazing figure eight that swept a pair of gunners off their feet. The others scattered, dodging off in all directions, pumping wild reflexive fire at any moving target. Stragglers were just arriving from the opposite direction, and the troops were firing at one another, frightened and disoriented.
Bolan crossed the fire-lighted no-man's-land with loping strides, shooting with a vengeance. One by one, the hostile guns were silenced, snipers falling prey to Bolan's sharp precision fire. A bloody moment longer, and the man in midnight black was moving through the killing ground alone.
He was alerted to Rani's presence when the tavern keeper stumbled down the hotel steps. He wore the look of a disaster victim, suddenly confronted by a scene beyond his comprehension. Bolan took advantage of the crew chief's temporary shock to put himself within arm's reach, edging up behind him like a shadow.
Rani jumped when Bolan pressed the muzzle of his chatter gun against one olive cheek. The Arab spun around, his Walther automatic jerking up and into shaky target acquisition, wavering on a level with the Phoenix warrior's waist, Bolan could have killed him when he moved, but he did not — that was not his plan.
Now they could kill each other. It would require a twitch of Rani's trigger finger, nothing more. A sudden-death exchange could end it all.
Bolan kept his voice low-key, almost a monotone. "It's up to you. Make your move."
Rani hesitated, then made his choice, dropping the Walther on the pavement.
Bolan brought the Uzi down against his side. "We haven't got a lot of time," he said. "Let's take it down the block."
Rani let himself be led along the street until they reached the alleyway. Gingerly, the Arab picked his way around a pair of riddled corpses, finally following Bolan into the shadows.
Bolan knew they were desperately short of time. Police would be responding swiftly. "You're marked," he told Rani. "Better find yourself a hole and crawl inside."
Rani looked bewildered, darting eyes a study in suspicion. "I don't understand."
Bolan feigned exasperation. "Put it all together. We were set up. Both of us."
"Setup?"
"Somebody wants me out of action. Two birds, one stone."
The Arab raised a hand, thought better of it and stuffed it in a pocket. He was anxious to be out of there, but he was tangled like a fly in Bolan's verbal web. "You speak in riddles."
"Someone has you marked expendable. Your ass is hanging out a mile."
"I have no enemies," the tavern keeper told him, bristling.
"Then you need a better class of friends. The ones you've got will eat you alive."
Rani dredged up the last of his nerve and challenged Bolan. "What are you doing in Algiers?"
"Like I told you, setting up a new connection, weeding out the old. Times are changing. Somebody doesn't like the signs."
&n
bsp; Recognition dawned behind the Arab's eyes. "The war."
"It's in your own backyard. Better pick a winner while you can."
As if to stress the urgency of Bolan's words, a distant siren sounded, drawing nearer, joined immediately by another and another. Bolan saw the perspiration breaking out on Rani's face.
"You ask me to betray a trust."
"I'm giving you a chance to stay alive," he countered. "Your choice."
"I would require assurance..."
Bolan stopped him, pushing the Uzi's muzzle underneath the Arab's chin, forcing his head back. Rani swallowed hard, his Adam's apple colliding with the flash suppressor.
"You haven't got a thing to bargain with," Bolan told the thug. "Anyone I miss is coming after you."
"A shipment, scheduled for tonight," Rani stammered, giving in. "The Liberté, with cargo for the south. Everyone you want will be there."
"Time and place?"
The Arab rattled off an hour and the number of the freighter's berth. He was trembling now, with the sirens almost upon them, and Bolan knew he had pushed his captive to the limit.
"Live," he said. "Go find yourself that hole."
And he was moving out, abandoning the Arab. The Executioner had business to take care of — an unexpected shipment southward bound and only thirty minutes to prevent departure.
The game was slipping through his fingers, and he had to get it back before he lost it all. Perhaps, with any luck, he could take the sudden detour and convert it to a winning play.
Behind him, Bolan left a ticking time bomb of his own. Rani was nursing doubts — about his place in the scum society, his superiors and the odds of his survival in Algiers. The soldier left him to it; whether Rani went to ground or ran to his employers was of little consequence. The damage had been done.
Divide and conquer, and let the opposition turn upon themselves, devour one another in a frenzy of suspicion while he chipped away at their defenses.
Sold for Slaughter Page 6