It was now or never.
Bolan brought his free hand up and over, fingers reaching for the giant's eyes. Scarface saw it coming and reacted swiftly, wrenching his head away. Bolan missed his target, but sank his thumb into a flaring nostril. With a final, desperate surge of strength, he twisted and was rewarded by an ugly ripping sound.
Scarface shrieked, thrusting Bolan powerfully away. The new momentum magnified his strength, and Bolan ripped his thumb free, releasing a bloody geyser as he slumped against the desk. In front of him, the Tuareg shook himself, clutching a bloody flab of mangled nose and cheek — then he attacked again.
Bolan tried to sidestep the attack, fading left, but Amal clotheslined him, one arm catching him across the chest, slamming him against the massive desk.
Bolan rolled back across the desk and brought his legs up, knees and heels together, muscles coiled like springs of steel. He lashed out, catching his adversary in the chest, driving him backward. For an instant, the bodycock was shaken, out of breath, and then a slim stiletto blossomed in his fist.
Bolan's right hand found the holstered AutoMag and wrenched it free of leather. The Tuareg was closing on him and he squeezed off, closing the gap with 240 grains of lethal thunder.
And the giant's face was changing, folding, imploding. The force of impact lifted him off his feet and drove him backward. He was airborne when the second .44 slug took him underneath the chin and vaporized his skull.
The headless mannequin collided with a cabinet and rebounded in a sprawl. Bolan was recovering his balance when the cabinet began to move, revolving outward to reveal a yawning tunnel.
Bolan saw it all: Rani making preparations for a hasty getaway, sacrificing Scarface to protect his butt, the claustrophobic journey underground. The tavern keeper had a lead, but maybe there was still a chance of overtaking him.
Bolan shook himself, discarding pain and weariness, then recovered the Uzi. Precious time was running out.
The Executioner was going underground.
Darkness swallowed him. He marked the bats and scuttling rodents, noxious sewer sounds and smells. The pencil flash revealed his course and kept him going. Light from Rani's office faded, disappeared behind him; he could almost feel the walls closing in.
The ground began to rise as the rathole wound toward a terminus. A faint illumination beckoned him. Bolan pocketed the flashlight, homing on the beacon as it grew and brightened into the outline of a door. In another moment, he stood at the threshold, poised to enter, listening.
There were sounds of struggle on the other side, a muffled, familiar voice bawling for mercy. Bolan listened for another voice, some way to estimate the hostile numbers, but his enemies were silently going about their business.
He had located Rani, and the guy was not alone. From the sound of it, the tavern keeper was quickly running out of time.
Bolan scrutinized the door, figuring it was a carbon copy of one in Rani's office. He tested it and felt it move. He then held the Uzi ready as he put his weight behind a powerful shove. Bolan shouldered through, his weapon up and tracking, eyes narrowed against the sudden brilliant light.
The room was out of the writings of the Marquis de Sade, complete with every sort of torture implement imaginable. Bolan took a quick scan of the scene: Rani, battered, bleeding from a ragged scalp wound, was grappling with a pair of black Goliaths decked out in harem garb. He was keeping them busy, but the crushing blows they landed in a steady rain on his head and shoulders were dampening the little man's opposition.
Bolan's unexpected entry drew attention away from the human punching bag. One of the giants growled and rushed him, head down, a lumbering juggernaut. Bolan stroked the Uzi's trigger, rattling off half a dozen parabellum manglers at a range of twenty paces, and the rush became a lifeless slide to nowhere. Momentum carried him along the concrete floor, into a wall.
The other Goliath had come unglued and was shaking Rani in his grasp the way a terrier shakes a rat. From the sash around his waist, he drew an evil-looking khukri dagger and plunged the blade into his captive's abdomen.
Rani screamed and doubled over as the blade was twisted and withdrawn. He was holding his vitals, bloody fingers clasped across the gaping wound, and by the time he reached his knees the giant stood above him, poised and ready for a swift decapitating blow.
Bolan held the Uzi's trigger down and let the stubby man-shredder empty out at 750 rounds per minute. His target was disintegrating, steel-jacket parabellums separating flesh and bone. The hardguy's turban was in orbit, taking half the skull with it, and the blow he aimed at Rani never fell.
Bolan fed the little chattergun another magazine and moved to kneel beside the dying Arab. Through a haze of blood and pain, his eyes fading in and out of focus, Rani could still recognize Bolan.
"I need to find the woman," Bolan told him.
Rani half turned to face the Executioner, and the effort cost most of what he had left. "Woman," the dying man repeated dully.
The Executioner was running out of time. "It's over, Rani. Look around. Your friends have done this to you." Bolan forged ahead relentlessly. "You're dying, dammit. Take the bastards with you."
Something clicked behind the eyes, but it took another moment for the voice to surface.
"El-Biar," he croaked. "The countess."
The title was a mystery to Bolan, but he recognized the address.
In front of him, Rani stiffened, screwing up his face against the sudden pain. When he died, a silent shudder racked his body, and he toppled forward. Bolan caught him, easing his dead weight down into a prone position. Bolan left him there.
El-Biar. The countess.
It was a feeble lead, but it was all he had. The blitz had come full circle, and he had a single stop remaining. It was time to play his final card and raise the ante to its limit.
16
Armand Dusault killed a man for the first time at age fourteen. His victim was a Jewish pawnbroker in Marseilles, a Holocaust survivor who had shunned the lure of Israel, refusing to leave his native France. Armand cared nothing for the old man's religion or his politics. He knew the merchant closed his shop at the same time every day and carried his cash home for safe deposit underneath a mattress. The old man did not believe in banks.
One evening as he started home, Armand was waiting for him in an alley. The Corsican fell in behind his target, slipped an eight-inch carving knife between his ribs and stripped his victim of all valuables. Almost as an afterthought, he cut the pawnbroker's throat from ear to ear.
With the money taken from the corpse, he fed himself and bought a small supply of heroin. The profits were tremendous. He invested widely and diversified in time, alert to any opportunity for personal advancement. There were other murders, brutal lessons to his enemies and weak associates. Along the waterfront, Armand became a force to reckon with.
And the Corsican was learning as he grew. His elders in the underworld could recognize a rising talent, and they sheltered him, provided him with valuable instruction. In time, Armand became a trusted aide to Monzoor Rudolfi, rubbing elbows with the criminal elite of southern France. Claude DeChamps. Alex Korvini. Herbert Silvaterri. All of them dead now, executed by that bastard Bolan, l'Américain formidable.
In the wake of the Rudolfi massacre, Armand had helped himself to some of Monzoor's secret cash reserves, abandoning the Riviera for a safer climate. Stopping off in Sicily's Agrigento province, he established ties with Don Cafu, the local Mafia leader. They had enjoyed a cautious union, and the Corsican had profited immensely, nailing down a host of vital contacts in Turkey and the Middle East. And once again, a natural intuition had preserved Armand; he had departed for Algiers a month before that sacre Bolan had returned to bury Don Cafu beneath the smoking ruins of his empire.
Algeria had been the smartest move in a career distinguished by incisive tactical decisions. Armand had learned the flesh-trade basics from Monzoor Rudolfi, strengthened his connections in the months with
Don Cafu at Agrigento. Minimal expense and muscle put him into business; ruthlessness and cunning allowed him to dominate the field within eighteen months. Competitors were absorbed or liquidated in a brisk and brutal war of acquisition.
The Corsican became a man of power and respect, surpassing even Tom Rudolfi in wealth and influence. Life was good, the future bright... until that afternoon.
The winds of change were whipping through Algiers, and several of Armanďs associates had been blown away. Survivors, shaken by the sudden stormy violence, were hounding him for aid, demanding swift solutions to the common problem, but Armand was concentrating on survival.
The Corsican was plugging leaks and settling accounts. He had dispatched a crew to punish Rani for the Orient fiasco, and that was only the beginning. Others would experience his wrath before the desert sun rose on another day. It was a time for cleaning house and separating wheat from chaff.
But first, Armand would have to save himself. The enemy was breathing down his neck, endangering his empire and his life. Police and politicians, terrorists and underworld associates were crowding him, declaring that a capo who could not protect his friends was useless, expendable. In time the boldest of them would try to rise against him, sensing weakness.
It was time for friends and enemies alike to see his strength.
The Corsican was not alone, but up to now his closest allies had failed to give him cause for confidence. Mustaffa was a weakling, born to privilege, grown soft in the pursuit of fleshly pleasures. And the countess... she was something else entirely. She had shown initiative in capturing the spy — and she had put them all in jeopardy by keeping it a secret, holding onto the captive for her own perverted pleasures and amusement.
Later, when he had the time to spare, Armand would chastise her for that.
At least he had the hostage now, securely under wraps along with all the merchandise he had intended for the evening shipment. When he had the time to question her, she might reveal the secret of his sudden problems.
No, the Corsican corrected himself, she would reveal the secret. And she would pray for the release of death before he finished with her.
But the questioning, however vital, would have to be postponed. He had reached a grim decision on his own. Armand was laying down the law.
The triumvirate sat in Armand's study, the Corsican behind a massive desk, the others in padded leather chairs facing him.
As he spoke, Armand watched them intently, gauging their reactions. Testing them. "It is time to reevaluate our situation," he proclaimed. "Desperate times require decisive action."
The briefest pause, to let their natural anticipation mount, and then Dusault continued. "We are under siege by faceless enemies, beset on every side. Until we can determine who is launching this attack, I have decided to withdraw."
"Withdraw?" Mustaffa seemed confused. "I do not understand."
The countess, Ilse Brunow, made a sour face. "Armand..."
"Be silent," he snapped at her. "If it wasn't for you, we might already know the name of our opposition. Through your dalliance, they gained a precious foothold."
Mustaffa shifted in his chair, leather groaning under him. His voice was cautious as he came to Ilse's aid. "There was trouble here before she found the woman."
"Of course," Armand scolded. "A probe, some warning shots. Nothing like this evening's carnage. Nothing like the rampage of this shadow warrior as he seeks our uninvited guest."
Mustaffa cleared his throat and began a thorough study of his fingernails. The countess turned a deeper shade of red, but wisely held her tongue.
"We are retiring from the field," Dusault informed them. "Let the duly constituted officers of law and order cope with violence in the streets. If we are not at hand, we cannot share the blame for anything that happens."
The meaty Arab stiffened and looked at him aghast. "The business..."
"Will be amply guarded. Soldiers are expendable. Generals are not."
"Where do you suggest we go?" the countess asked.
"On a cruise," he said. "My yacht is standing by with full provisions at the Sidi Fredj marina. We will take the company helicopter... to avoid potential traffic hazards."
"And the merchandise?" Mustaffa prodded.
"It will follow us by truck. Once at sea, we can dispose of any problems at our leisure."
The Arab seemed about to protest, but he reconsidered. Clearly shaken by the thought of ditching hostages at sea, he kept his reservations to himself. Ilse, on the other hand, was smiling in anticipation. She would watch the show and relish it.
Dusault was growing weary of these two — the flaccid Saudi and his slim, sadistic counterpart. Their support had been important once, a necessary evil, but today the Corsican could stand alone. Instead of just observing burial at sea, he might allow them to participate.
As corpses.
The Corsican stood up, circling the massive desk. "It's time to go," he said. "I have the pilot waiting outside."
"A moment now," the countess challenged. "I believe..."
She never had a chance to finish her sentence. Outside, a powerful explosion tore the night apart, its shock wave rattling the study windows. The initial blast was followed by another and another, rapid-fire detonations marching toward the house like the footsteps of an angry giant.
Sudden panic gripped the Corsican with sickening intensity. It took a will of iron to keep his features blank, prevent his voice from cracking when he spoke. "The helicopter — hurry," he commanded. "We are out of time."
Ilse and the Arab both recovered quickly from their momentary shock, and they were moving out as ordered, wasting no more time on questions. Watching them, Dusault was thankful for their survival reflexes. In spite of quirks and weaknesses, they each responded with alacrity to danger.
The Corsican delayed a moment, found the automatic pistol in his desk and slipped it into a pocket. With the enemy upon him, he would not rely entirely on his palace guard for safety.
Even generals have to stand alone at times.
Prepared for anything but failure, he left the lavish study, following Mustaffa and the countess. Somewhere out in the darkness, enemies were waiting for him, but the thought of death held little terror now. He had existed in its shadow from his childhood, grown accustomed to the shade.
A creature of the twilight shadows, he would be at home in darkness, even though his enemies sought sanctuary there. Committed to survival, he would track them down and kill them all before he let the work of a lifetime slip through his fingers.
Armand Dusault was going out to meet the enemy and show them what a man could do. He was going out fighting, and he would recognize no substitute for victory.
It was a battle to the death, and suddenly the Corsican felt right at home.
17
Crouching on the darkened hillside, Bolan scanned the manor house and grounds below. Floodlights were burning around the Corsican's château, lighting up foot patrols with automatic weapons and an executive chopper waiting on a helipad out back. Infrared Nitefinder goggles helped him pick out other sentries on the dark perimeter, teams of two and three circulating randomly among the trees.
Bolan was in blacksuit, face and hands darkened with combat pigments. The AutoMag and Beretta occupied their honored places, web belt heavy with the weight of extra magazines and hand grenades. He wore the lethal Uzi slung across his back, but the little stuttergun was in reserve.
As his hand weapon, Bolan had selected the deadly XM-18 projectile launcher. It had already served him in the early stages of his Casbah blitz, and he was counting on the portable artillery to give him the edge he needed now.
Made of cast aluminum and coated steel, the launcher weighed sixteen pounds, and resembled an inflated version of the classic Thompson submachine gun. The drum-style magazine contained a dozen 40mm rounds in any combination of the gunner's choice, and the weapon operated much like a revolver. If the weapon was in the semiautomatic mode, a practi
ced hand could empty the drum in five seconds flat. The stubby gun's rifled barrel gave a marksman extraordinary accuracy with a choice of high-explosive or incendiary rounds, gas or smoke, lethal buckshot or fleshette.
Double belts of alternating rounds were strapped across the warrior's chest, and he had primed the launcher with a deadly mix of HE, gas and fleshette cannisters for his initial strike.
Bolan started down the terraced slope. He passed undetected by a pair of gunners. He could have taken them at any time, a swift and silent double punch with the Beretta, but he let them go. Any confrontation had its risks, and he was saving everything for the main event.
At a hundred yards, he was well within the launcher's maximum effective range, but Bolan was after pinpoint accuracy. With captives hanging in the balance, hidden somewhere on the premises, nothing less would do.
Another team of gunners was approaching in the darkness, and Bolan found cover in the shadows, allowing them to pass. They were close to the nightfighter, conversing in a kind of bastard Arabic sprinkled with French, and both were carrying Beretta Model 12 submachine guns.
The troops were armed but far from ready. Cautious soldiers might have spotted him, would certainly have checked the undergrowth along their beat, but these men were casual, too relaxed. If all of them were equally negligent about their duties, Bolan's job would be a good deal easier.
The trees thinned out around him, clearing completely at a range of sixty yards from target. Open lawn stretched before him, sloping gently to the broad veranda and the house beyond. From where he stood in the shadows, Bolan had a good view of the house. In front of it was a curving drive with several cars lined up. On his left stood a smaller guesthouse or perhaps the servants' quarters. The helipad and waiting chopper were between the buildings, with a pair of flankers in attendance, standing watch.
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