"I've seen them. Thanks. You're a big help. Oh, has anyone else been asking about my buddy, Sam? Some credit guy is after him."
"There was somebody in here this morning looking for a semi, but they didn't know if he was Japanese, or anything about his rig. I told them lots of luck. Your friend must owe a bundle on that semi."
"He does. Thanks." Bolan walked back to his car. So, someone else was on Dunning's trail. It couldn't be Uncle Sam. Those government people were still playing around with the mesa below Phoenix.
The Executioner at least had some kind of direction. The rig was headed down Highway 87. Now all he had to know was the radius you could call for eighty-five cents.
Bolan unlocked his car and slid inside. He started the engine and drove onto the highway. He'd find the phone company or just a booth and give the operator his question. She would know the toll zones by heart.
About half a mile along, he spotted a coffee shop on the highway and pulled in beside two telephone booths. He turned off the engine and was reaching for the door when he felt the cold steel of a gun muzzle pressed against his neck.
5
"Please do not do anything rash," a woman's voice said from the back seat. "This is loaded and goes of f quite easily. I really do not want you dead, so just relax and keep your hands on the steering wheel where I can see them."
Mack Bolan never argued with a gun pressed against his neck. He sat quietly in the front seat of his car and put both hands slowly on the steering wheel. When he tried to find the woman's image in the rearview mirror, he could not.
"This is a poor place to rob somebody, lady."
"I am not going to rob you. Just relax, do not attempt anything foolish and you will remain alive."
Bolan heard a car pull in beside them. The door slammed, and a man opened Bolan's front passenger door and slid in. He picked up Bolan's weapons case and passed it to the woman in the back seat. Bolan digested the newcomer's features and ran them through his mental computer files. But he couldn't get a make on the man. He was in his forties with black hair, a stiff squared-off jaw, dark brown eyes and a mean expression. He wore sports clothes draped over a squat torso with a bulge of a weapon under the tail of his Hawaiian print shirt.
"No trouble so far," the woman said. "Your turn."
With a hamlike hand the man drew a short-barreled revolver from his belt and pressed it into Bolan's side.
"Hey, easy!" Bolan yelped, trying to give a good impression of fright. "Keep that thing away from me! It could hurt somebody. What the hell you people doing, anyway? I was just trying for a little nap after I gassed up, and then I talked with the pump man for some facts about his operation here. I want to do a free-lance article about truck stops. The Pit Stop is a good one."
"Shut up!" the man said in heavily accented English. "Be quiet. We know what you talked to the attendant about: Dr. Dunning. We, too, are interested in the good scientist and want to find him as much as you do."
"What scientist? I'm doing an article for Commercial Car Journal."
The man's hand darted to Bolan's belt and snaked out the .45 Colt Commander from the holster.
"Then why do you carry this big gun? Let us get down to the truth. We know you look for Dr. Dunning. We want to learn what you have found out, and we will get the information from you one way or another. First we drive into the desert where we can have more privacy."
Without looking at the woman, he got out and closed his door, went around the car and pushed Bolan into the passenger's side. Then the hijacker drove the car down Highway 40 for five miles, finally pulling off onto a desert track that led across the barren landscape. Bolan could see the gentle rise of the hills to the south.
The woman held her gun on Bolan's neck as they drove. When they stopped the man pushed him out the side door, slammed him against the side of the car and frisked him. They found the knife in Bolan's boot, but missed the small blade behind his belt.
Then the man spun Bolan around and slashed the Colt Commander down across the side of his head. The Executioner saw it coming and pivoted away from the blow, but caught enough of it to rip a gash on his forehead. The force of the impact was enough to drop Bolan to his knees in the sand.
They had driven a half mile off the main road and stopped behind a small hill. They were in a totally secluded area.
"Strip," the man ordered. "Take off all your clothes and your shoes. Do it right now."
For the first time Bolan saw the woman. She was slender, tall, with short, soft blond hair and a pretty face. He figured she was about thirty. She held a 9mm Luger as if she knew how to use it. The stern expression on her face told him she would not hesitate to fire the weapon.
"Hey, take it easy. I don't know anything about a guy named Dunning. I'm doing the damn truck-stop story!"
The man tried to kick Bolan in the crotch but the Executioner jumped away, taking the blow on the side of his thigh. He was ready to counter the thrust when he realized either one of them could shoot him if he attacked now.
Slowly he nodded. "You've got the guns. So I strip, what then?"
"Then we see if you are a CIA agent," the woman said. "Most agents have many scars on their bodies. We think you will have them, too."
"Sure I have scars. I was shot a few times in Vietnam. But I'm not a CIA agent. I never have been. I worked for the government when I was drafted, but that's all over now, thanks to the KGB." Bolan watched closely and the man's right eye twitched. It was enough. "I'm strictly a civilian. I don't work for any government agency. Which is more than the two of you can say. KGB, lower ranks. As a journalist I can smell you people a mile away. Has the Kremlin run out of good talented spies? Laughing boy here would be the more experienced, and our sweet little blonde is the mole, recently dug up for this mission. Hell, must be damn important."
"Strip," the man snarled.
Bolan took off his clothes quickly, naturally, until he was naked. He turned toward the woman. "I don't imagine that you're going to strip down, too?"
The blow came slightly before Bolan expected it, a massive fist into the back of his neck, driving him to his knees.
"How much do you know about Dr. Dunning?" the woman asked.
"His name — that's all you've told me so far."
The man's toe stung Bolan's side, aiming for his kidney. It missed.
"Save yourself a lot of punishment, American. We know you talked to the filling-station man about the truck and the Japanese driver. We could overhear that much. So now cooperate with us and do not lie. There is no reason for us to spill any of your blood."
Bolan glanced up and she was in front of him, looking him up and down. She smiled.
"American, tell us what you know about Dr. Dunning," she said again, her tone more pleasant.
Bolan had been doing a quick recalculation. They knew he was on the problem. He would tell them what they already must have learned to be this far along the trail. And perhaps save himself some unnecessary punishment.
"I don't know any more than you do. He's brilliant, he worked for NASA until two years ago, and now he's off on his own. He captured and knocked down a U.S. communications satellite that cost something like twenty million dollars. Now I think he's in this area somewhere. How did you get this far along on his tracks?"
"We ask the questions," the man said, kicking Bolan in the back. The Executioner groaned for effect.
"What else did the filling-station attendant tell you?"
"That diesel gives better mileage than gasoline," Bolan said. He anticipated the kick from the left side this time. He spun on his knees, caught the boot, rammed it upward with his left hand and smashed his right fist with all his power into the Russian's crotch.
The man screamed in pain as he pawed for his pistol. Bolan surged upright as the agent bellowed his rage again and fell, the agony of his crushed testicles sapping his strength, dropping him to the ground. He pulled up his knees to his chest to try to relieve the grinding, excruciating pain in his sc
rotum.
A shot slammed through the dry air and missed Bolan by inches. He dived behind the writhing hulk of the Russian, grabbed him by the throat and peered around him at the woman.
She held the Luger, a frown on her pretty face as she looked for a target.
"Drop it, lady, or I tear out his carotid arteries and he dies in twenty seconds."
"Unlikely. A difficult kill. Even if you can do it, I would wait until Niki is dead, then I shoot you as you leave his body."
"You can try. But by then I'll have my .45 back, and I'll be blasting you straight into hell." Bolan tightened his grip around the man's throat, shutting off the air until he began coughing and gagging. When Bolan looked at the Russian woman again, she was impassive.
"You are wrong, American. I was not the mole — neither of us was. We are both on this special assignment. We have known for nearly a month that your Dr. Dunning was going to try to sabotage our missiles. We thought he was doing it with your government's backing. Now we find he is entirely on his own." She lifted her beautifully arched brows. "Perhaps you are working for Dunning." She paused, then shook her head. "No, no. Then you would know where to find him." She sighed and brought up her pistol. "Be realistic, American. If you kill Niki, I shall have to kill you. An eye for an eye, a corpse for a corpse."
"Why?" Bolan asked. "Just because he was stupid enough to make a mistake and give me an opening to attack? He isn't in your class, lady, that's clear. You are the senior agent, right? He was your muscle and not very smart muscle at that." Bolan let off the pressure around the Russian's throat so he could breathe normally.
"You said you knew a month ago that Dunning was going to do this?"
"Yes, and we began to track him. But your Dr. Dunning is a clever man."
"He's also a pacifist, as you must know. He wants to outlaw war and violence, do away with all offensive weapons. That's why he quit our space agency. And it could be that he's planning to attack both our nations' space missiles. Do something to draw attention to the problem, get worldwide attention. The way he dramatically knocked down that communications satellite might be what he is planning on a grander scale."
"He is a dangerous man."
"Or one too brilliant for his time."
"I am beginning to get an idea, American," she said.
"I hope it's the same one I'm getting."
"If you promise not to kill Niki, we can talk about working together for the common good, to stop this madman from damaging our orbiting satellites."
Bolan nodded. "If we have anything to pool, we will. I know little besides what I told you."
She smiled and lowered the Luger. "You know more, much more. That was obvious the crude way you lied to Niki — a normal ploy." She looked at him closely, then lowered the pistol to her side.
"I agree to cooperate if you do. I have little to lose. Niki and I were at a dead end here. We could go no further. I know that Dr. Dunning and three men went through here three days ago. He had a diesel tractor, a thirty-foot trailer and a four-wheel-drive utility vehicle. We are not sure where he went from here. We believe his entire scientific equipment for his space theft is contained in the two vehicles."
She gathered up Bolan's clothes and carried them to him.
"Partners?" she asked. "We do not have to like or trust each other, just work together on this mission. All agreements are off once we have stopped this madman."
Bolan eased his hands away from the Russian's throat as he watched the woman.
The Executioner hesitated for a second before he spoke.
"Your people killed my woman, cut her down without a chance. She wasn't even in a combat situation. She put herself in the line of fire to help..."
"My father was KGB, one of the first. One of the best. An American agent strangled him in West Germany with his bare hands. 1, too, have some anger."
She bent and laid his clothes beside him. Bolan let go of Niki.
"If we work together, can you control this Cro-Magnon maniac?"
"Niki will do as I tell him."
"No!" The roaring denial came as the man rolled away from them both, drawing the automatic from his belt. Bolan was up and dodging, darting toward the Russian. The .45 roared into the desert air, but the round missed. Niki rolled again and Bolan was almost on top of him but the lightweight Colt Commander swung up again in the Russian's hand. There was nowhere to dodge, no time, no place, no chance.
For a frozen second in time Bolan stared into the round black hole of his own .45. He was looking death in the face and he knew it. He heard a shot even as he lunged to the side. He hit the hot sand and rocks on his bare shoulder, then rolled, realizing that he wasn't dead. He jumped up, still naked, and stared down at the writhing form of Niki in the red dust. A fountain of blood spurted from his neck.
In a montage of sight, sound and time moving in slow motion, Bolan saw the Luger tracking up again. This time the hot lead ripped through Niki's forehead, blasting him backward into the rocks and soil, canceling another Soviet agent from their roster.
Bolan stared at the female Russian agent.
She shrugged. "He disobeyed me. It was the least he could expect. I have not been happy with him as a partner during the past month. We should have caught Dunning by now." She waved her hand and put the pistol away. "This one was of no importance. Put your clothes on and we will talk. Perhaps we each have something the other could use." She studied him frankly, the double meaning coming through plainly to Bolan.
He dressed. She picked up the Colt and handed it to Bolan. Then she removed the fake identification from Niki's pockets and they walked to the car.
"There is no use to hide the body. We will be gone by the time anyone finds him. I shall report his demise to my superiors. They expect some losses."
They sat in his rented Ford and Bolan looked at her.
"You saved my life back there. He had me cold. There was no way I could have stayed alive. I don't even know your name."
"In English it is like the name Kitty."
He looked at her more carefully, saw a firm jaw, soft blue eyes and short blond hair that seemed exactly right for her. She was pretty, a year or two older than the thirty he had first guessed. She smiled. "Kitty, why did you shoot Niki? You had to make up your mind quickly."
"He was about to kill my best lead to Dr. Dunning. He was acting out of personal anger and pain. He was out of his head — how do you say — crazy, and he had to be liquidated. And I know you found out something more from the filling-station man. With what you have and what we have, we can find Dr. Dunning. I shot Niki because he was wrong, and because he went against my leadership once too often."
Bolan decided he could work with this woman until the mission was over, but no more. She had saved his skin, and he owed her that much.
He suppressed his constant boiling fury at the KGB and its operation that claimed April Rose. Somehow he had to keep under control his deep-seated killing vengeance. Later he would fight the other battle.
The Executioner drove back to town, found another filling station that had telephones and went to the first one. He asked the operator the question and she had a quick answer.
"An eighty-five-cent call from here could go to only three or four areas: Flagstaff, Holbrook or Clints Well to the south, and of course into the reservations. There may be a few more spots, but most of them would be ranches and private homes. That's the radius for an eighty-five-cent toll call."
Bolan held the phone so Kitty could hear. She frowned as they got back into the car. He explained to her about the man with the gun and the red pickup and Sam Yamaguchi.
"The call was always long distance, and once he heard the operator ask for him to put in the eighty-five cents. We have a range of about thirty to forty miles three ways. We won't go back to Flag, and Holbrook doesn't seem right, if you want to hide all that equipment. Dunning seems to like the wide-open spaces. I'd pick Clints Well as our next stop. Besides, the station attendant said Yamaguchi ask
ed how to get to Highway 87. That goes south into the mountains and to Clints Well."
"Yes, I knew you had more than I did." She watched him with a soft smile. They were sitting close together in the car and the contact was not unpleasant for Bolan.
"First, what shall I call you?" she said. "What name?"
"Mack, call me Mack. It's a good cover name."
"Very well. Mack, you make decisions quickly yourself. I like that. Are you certain this is the best direction to take?"
"Highway 87 goes north directly into the Apache and Hopi Indian reservations. A lot of dry mesas and no cover. He's south. Let's check the map in the car. I've seen most of this country before. If I had the choice, I'd go to the mountains. The more height he has, the better his contact with the stars. The more mountains, the harder to find him and the easier to defend. Besides, the gas-station man said he asked how to get south."
Kitty lifted her brows and slowly nodded. "Yes, it sounds reasonable, practical. I will go along with your suggestion."
They drove back to her parked rental car, took her two suitcases from the trunk and transferred them to Bolan's wheels. Two minutes later they were driving out of Winslow, heading south on 87 into the mountains.
6
As he drove, Bolan occasionally glanced at the enemy agent. He could not stop wondering if he had made the right decision. So far she had brought nothing to the cooperative effort. Stark, terrible memories flooded through him of Stony Man Farm on that fateful day when all hell had broken loose.
The KGB had tried to kill the man they knew as Colonel John Phoenix. They missed him, but in the terrible fight they had brutally, needlessly, snuffed out the life of April Rose.
Bolan felt his anger surge. He sucked in a quick breath, and his hands tightened around the steering wheel. He had made a vow that day to avenge April's death. Whoever was responsible would die for that attack, and for those loved ones disabled and gone forever.
Again, the Executioner was a fugitive, operating outside the law, hunted from every side, but still he fought the battle against Animal Man and his crimes against humanity. Bolan did not care whether the adversary was the Mafia, terrorists, or some other greater evil that jeopardized the freedom of the common man. The Executioner's future would be written in blood — the enemy's blood.
Orbiting Omega Page 4