Bolan had a grim idea of what he would find

Anger pumped in rhythm to the beating of his heart. Sobbing and soft voices reached his ears, followed by gruff demands for silence. Then he heard Katerina Muscovky quietly calling to him as he struggled to sit up. The real world of hooded gunmen and hostages came into slow focus.

His first thought was to free himself and strike back. How to do that was a damn good question that presented no ready answers. The others might have been clinging to some faint hope of rescue or release, but Bolan knew from experience what their captors were capable of doing.

Looking at the cameras on tripods, he knew he’d better find a solution fast—before the filmed executions began.

MACK BOLAN ®

The Executioner

#256 Point of Impact

#257 Precision Play

#258 Target Lock

#259 Nightfire

#260 Dayhunt

#261 Dawnkill

#262 Trigger Point

#263 Skysniper

#264 Iron Fist

#265 Freedom Force

#266 Ultimate Price

#267 Invisible Invader

#268 Shattered Trust

#269 Shifting Shadows

#270 Judgment Day

#271 Cyberhunt

#272 Stealth Striker

#273 UForce

#274 Rogue Target

#275 Crossed Borders

#276 Leviathan

#277 Dirty Mission

#278 Triple Reverse

#279 Fire Wind

#280 Fear Rally

#281 Blood Stone

#282 Jungle Conflict

#283 Ring of Retaliation

#284 Devil’s Army

#285 Final Strike

#286 Armageddon Exit

#287 Rogue Warrior

#288 Arctic Blast

#289 Vendetta Force

#290 Pursued

#291 Blood Trade

#292 Savage Game

#293 Death Merchants

#294 Scorpion Rising

#295 Hostile Alliance

#296 Nuclear Game

#297 Deadly Pursuit

#298 Final Play

#299 Dangerous Encounter

#300 Warrior’s Requiem

#301 Blast Radius

#302 Shadow Search

#303 Sea of Terror

#304 Soviet Specter

#305 Point Position

#306 Mercy Mission

#307 Hard Pursuit

#308 Into the Fire

#309 Flames of Fury

#310 Killing Heat

#311 Night of the Knives

#312 Death Gamble

#313 Lockdown

#314 Lethal Payload

#315 Agent of Peril

#316 Poison Justice

#317 Hour of Judgment

#318 Code of Resistance

#319 Entry Point

#320 Exit Code

#321 Suicide Highway

#322 Time Bomb

#323 Soft Target

#324 Terminal Zone

#325 Edge of Hell

#326 Blood Tide

#327 Serpent’s Lair

#328 Triangle of Terror

#329 Hostile Crossing

#330 Dual Action

#331 Assault Force

The Executioner®

Assault Force

Don Pendleton

Heroes as great have died, and yet shall fall.

—Homer, c1000 B.C.

Iliad

Big screen heroes are larger than life. Real-life heroes often go unnoticed.

—Mack Bolan

THE MACK BOLAN LEGEND

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

1

He stepped onto the wide, white-marbled path, leaving the revelry of the withering beach crowd behind as shadows lengthened across the Mediterranean. The sound of the gentle lap of waves faded the deeper he forged into the army of guests and locals marching for the bars, restaurants and discos. He considered—despite some anticipated alteration in professional standards—that he was still in a class all by himself. Come what may, he was nothing less than a superman in black ops, the Entity, to be more precise, as he so often thought of himself. He was above the laws of man and whatever gods they worshiped. Fear God? Respect Man? Perish the absurd thought.

Beyond professional pride and infinite confidence in his own lethal skills, he knew his continued existence depended on his ability to remain a nameless, faceless specter. Positive identification, after all, could mean sudden death.

Which was why he never left whatever his lair of the moment without some bogus credentials. Depending on the situation, he was FBI Special Agent Henry Jarrod, Pierre DeJaureaux of Interpol or at present, Jarrod Harmon, head of security for the American Embassy in Spain, which in special ops and intelligence circles translated CIA. A chameleon walking a tightrope, for damn sure, he never moved among prey or predators without the 9 mm Browning Hi-Power stowed in shoulder rigging.

He took his time strolling up the low incline, apparently sightseeing, but grimly aware the clock was winding down for the big event. The roving traffic, he noted with keen fondness, was mostly stunning females, two, maybe three beauties per man. European, African or Asian, it was a rainbow of nubile flesh, begging to be devoured, barely concealed in sheer wraparounds for cocktail hour, a thong bikini, here and there, to really get his pulse pounding. Feeling invincible in his own tanned war hide, hefting the heavy nylon duffel bag, he dismissed the men as standard nonthreatening Eurotrash with more money than spine. He let his eyes fill behind the mirrored shades with fleeting fantasies of women in the prayer position. And who knew? he thought, when the time came…

Hell, when it began they would hit their knees, all of them, make no mistake.

Business first, he told himself, and felt his lust spiral down toward a dark pit of churning anger and resentment as he heard women giggle over the spray and hiss of fountains, hidden as they were in private cubbyholes off to the sides in this tunnel of transplanted jungle Eden. Still, the heavenly fragrance of all this sun-bronzed perfumed cream and hairspray was a heady mix in his nose. It seemed to swell the air, drawing him, in fact, toward destiny as he closed on a pool near football field dimensions—a watery playground with all the posh trimmings of fountains, palm trees, custom hot tubs, with scores of buxom bunnies in skintight one-pieces clacking along on high heels to keep the drinks flowing.

Let the good times roll.

Heaven was soon to be set on fire.

A check of his Rolex watch indicated he was minutes late after shoring up eleventh-hour details. But the man would keep, if he was as brazen and committed as his track record declared, and wished to see his own dream come true.

Harmon had no doubt on those two fronts, but seeing was still believing in his playbook.

A trio of leggy blondes swept past, the aroma of sweet candy flesh nearly knocking him out of his Italian loafers. Enough. Get laser-focused on mission parameters, he warned himself. He was about to nail down all the fine details with a sorcerer’s touch. He wasn’t any playboy here to grab ass, at least not in the foreseeable future.

Topping the rise, Jarrod Harmon marched onto the concrete decking and smiled despite his best intentions. Giant palmettos fanned away on both sides, more man-made jungle. There were cabanas, poolside bars with thatched roofs, pockets of marble tables around the deck. Chaise lounges and leather chairs became thrones for the elite, erect and proud all of them, modern-day kings and queens, not a care in the world.

He suddenly felt his mood darken, lost the smile as the enormity of the mission slammed like a meteor on his shoulders. He froze in midstride, the clamor of joy and freedom, the smell of arrogant money and rich, sated flesh was like a living barrier falling over him.

Everywhere they were laughing, hyenas in human skin, a babble of tongues raised in grand spirits from the dozen or so dialects of Spain and other countries. They clinked glasses, kissed, embraced, downing one drink after another like there was no tomorrow—and, oh, if they only knew, he thought. They frolicked in the water, splashing around like innocent children. A pair of ripe melons flashed for his eyes to behold as some joker held up a bikini top like a trophy.

Soft music piped in from invisible amplifiers, a melodious love song, it sounded, as if the flames of lust really needed stoking. So much jewelry glinting in the sunshine, it was like watching countless stars wink wherever he turned, a sea of wealth flaunted to signal the peasants to stand back, gape and wish.

All the beautiful people.

He realized just how different he was from them, but also how much he hated them. None of them could even begin to fathom the dark, angry, bloody world from which he came, had probably never known a tough day in their lives. Their existence was a gilded, privileged fortress, a towering wall, a great chasm that kept him…

Oh, but how sweet it would be.

Another panning scour and he detailed the security guards, staggered at intervals on both sides of the pool. Six in all, easy enough to spot, they were little more than clones in black jackets, dark shades and earplugs, muscle attempting to look casual but failing. Sacrificial idiots.

Harmon stared at the palatial monument where it would all happen.

Twelve stories, he considered, 683 rooms. More than three miles of corridors, and capacity enough for close to five thousand bodies. The ritzy nirvana for the rich and famous was purgatory for service staff, a small city unto itself. A multi-billion dollar facelift was on the drawing board to stretch even farther up the coast, he knew. Those dream teams of architects and engineers—backed by private Saudi cash—were still hard at it to pick clean every last sore of the old barrios, upgrade marinas to berth seven-figure yachts and flashy cigarette boats.

The New Barcelona Hotel.

Staring at the top floor of Presidential Suites, he tried to envision the interior layout from memory, but already knew he’d fall short. Between ballrooms and dining rooms, restaurants, bars and clubs, the shopping complex, the spas and gymnasium…throw in cinemas, the vast expanse of kitchen with staff that rolled out entrées, buffets and room service meals around-the-clock, the security-management-utility vault belowground…

How in the world were they going to pull it off? he wondered.

Nothing but a challenge, he told himself, the biggest to date, without question, but he was, after all, the Entity.

He rolled on, shouldered past some guy in nut huggers, sending his umbrella drink airborne. The squawk of French outrage was music to his ears as he set his sights on the hoopla at the pavilion on the north edge. The gold lion on its haunches, all of two stories and maybe thirty feet across with shamelessly displayed testicles the size of small cars, was his signpost. As he drew closer to the gaggle of reporters and autograph hounds—mostly teenaged kids, a smattering of female oglers—Harmon couldn’t help but indulge a wide smile, nurse some contempt.

America’s new celluloid action hero and the hottest matinee idol in Europe was in town to scout locations for his latest flick. Harmon had seen the guy’s mug and muscled self—always grim and wielding guns the size of howitzers—plastered all over the place during the dry run. Half of six in-house screens were running the drivel daily. Little did big shot know, Harmon thought, he and his entourage had made the cut, all destined for stardom in a script already written and approved.

Marching toward the gilded lion, Harmon suddenly felt worlds collide. It happened sometimes when driven toward a fate so bold. Armored with little more than experience, guts and sense of utter invincibility, sight and sound meshed, a living vacuum, it felt, sucking him toward destiny even as physical reality ground into slow motion. Human beings? Scapegoats? Sacrificial lambs? Look at them, he thought. They were oblivious, the walking dead, shielded in privilege and money, above it all.

He felt their energy, drawing it into the fire igniting inside. He became so acutely aware of his own lethal uniqueness it was as if he was floating past the group by the statue. The King of Tinseltown, he observed in the shining haze of his adrenalized free-floating state, fit the bill, as far as standard film handsome went. Tall, broad, dark-haired, the six-figure pearly whites flashed at the adoring throngs. A leggy, large-breasted bimbo adorned each muscled arm. With black shades hiding action hero’s eyes, Harmon couldn’t get a read into the man’s soul as he passed before the gold lion, angling for the bar set beneath the marble rooftop.

But he could read the type. Two gorillas were on standby, scowling unchained beasts, set to slap anyone who got out of line with the movie star or didn’t pay sufficient homage. The man was early thirty-something, but Harmon believed he could absorb the star’s life force easily enough. He marked him as a pampered, overindulged phony who would most likely curl up into a fetal position at the first sign of real danger—just another Hollywood asshole.

The entourage staking out tables beside the film hero was an interesting mix, however. The usual squeeze things, of course, there to keep the star happy. A trio of jokers stuffed into four-figure suits looked properly self-important, directors or whatever else, women hanging on their every breath. A few scruffy, bleary-eyed guys down the line, minus the chicks, looked as harried as hell, hard-core boozers the way they hit the drinks. Harmon read them as being forever worried about job security as they rifled through papers, all animated heated talk. He figured scriptwriters, the unsung fuel that powered any Hollywood juggernaut. One guy, who might have been a ringer for the star—or close enough at first look—sat with two men. The physical double of the star, only light-years tougher, Harmon chalked him up as ex-military. All of them were clearly unimpressed with the showboating. They were confident and comfortable in their skin as only men who’d been down some dark alleys and walked out standing could be. Had to be stuntmen, the real deal, taking all the risks while getting slapped around and abused, humiliated and killed for the greater glory of the hero. Bunch of damn nonsense. For his money, judging them as nothing less than solid balls-to-the-wall stand-up acts, the roles should have been reversed.

Only in Hollywood.

Choking down a raw smart-ass one-liner, satisfied to reserve it, nonetheless, Harmon hastened his strides. He was past the empty bandstand, unattended instruments waiting to woo the happy-hour crowd, when he spotted his man. Harmon fell into his meandering guest act next, smiling at the milling crowd, inhaling the rich aroma of the best food money could buy as waiters in black tuxedos set up the buffet. The bar was packed tight with suits and skirts, but the high leather chair was empty next to his man, as he had known it would be. There was enough barfly tumult for their purposes. He glanced at the swarthy handsome face bent over a bottle of beer. Smiling, he said, “Is this seat taken, sir?”

Without looking up, the slightly built dark man answered back in Castilian Spanish, “It’s reserved for you.”

Harmon settled in, dumped the bag on the deck, managed to catch the bartender on the fly and ordered a beer with a whiskey chaser. Then he looked around, smiling, awed by it all. He sensed before seeing him, the man’s backup at the far end of the bar. He had no names, had never met them, but he knew the look of a killer when he saw it. He spotted a couple of his own guys in a booth to his deep four o’clock. Lighting a cigarette, Harmon rode out the silence while the bartender fetched his order. Cool was important, deceptive appearances critical in case unwanted eyes were watching.

He was staring out at the pool, eager to get on with it, when he spotted her. Man alive, he thought, unable to tear his gaze from the woman, his normally cold heart leaping like a hot coal into his throat. Scores of beauties were slinking all over, but she was a world-class looker. Hell, no, he corrected, she was in a universe all by herself. Blond, not all that busty, but with long legs, the kind that were muscular in a gymnast way, tanned and displayed in the slit of her white semiformal evening dress as she strutted toward the gold lion.

Mr. Hollywood, he glimpsed, looking on, was less than halfhearted in his glory as he scribbled out an autograph for some kid who looked set to wet himself. The woman’s face was classic sculpted angel, East European, maybe Ukranian, Harmon guessed from personal experience in that part of the world. The way she moved was all class, all woman, eyes front, boys, except for Mr. Right.

Sure enough, damn it, she wasn’t alone. They weren’t pawing each other, goo-goo eyes and such, not even holding hands, but Harmon sensed they were confident and sure in themselves, separate but together. Lovers, no question, and he hated the guy for just breathing the same air. The tall, athletic SOB on her wing was dark, maybe Italian, or just too much time in the sun. It was hard to tell with this bunch. Whoever he was, he didn’t fit the playboy bill. The clothes for one thing, black slacks, matching dress shoes, aloha shirt worn out, dark shades, standard casual maybe, only…

Harmon’s mental radar blipped louder the longer he studied the big guy. Something in the way he carried himself, an aura Harmon didn’t trust. He sensed he was in the presence of another warrior.

Moving like the fearless lion king, Harmon noted the slow athletic carriage, only instinct warned him the dark man could move as fast as a cobra lunge, if the need arose. That wasn’t any jet-setter. He tried to dismiss the troubled stirring in his gut as standard prelaunch jitters. But there was something about the man…

The drinks came, the big guy vanished and Harmon told the bartender to start him a tab.

“Did you bring it?” his companion asked.

They switched to French. Nobody paid attention to the French. Harmon downed his shot, sipped his beer. “I’ll put it on the bar when I leave,” he told the man, bobbing his head, grinning, just a couple of Frenchmen shooting small talk at the bar. “Quite the chosen. Truly an elite group.”

“I have my reasons.”

“I’m sure you do,” Harmon replied.

“And the other matter?”

Harmon blew out a funnel of smoke. “In the package. We’ll work out the finer details.”

“See how things progress?”

“Took the words right out of my mouth.”

“You understand that failure is not an option?”

“That’s the only way I know how to work.”

Harmon couldn’t help himself, feeling stronger and more confident with each second. The man’s cologne spiking his nose, the black op glanced at his comrade’s face reflected in the mirror across the bar. Clean-shaved as smooth as a newborn’s bottom, black hair closely cropped, the glasses a nice touch. Harmon turned his head, smiled at his swarthy companion and lifted his bottle. “Cheers. Here’s to the party.”

Jarrod Harmon touched glass with the man he knew had a twenty-million dollar bounty, dead or alive, on his scalp.

2

Father Jose Gadiz was disturbed. It seemed to take all his energy just to cross the vast expanse of gilded, marbled lobby and forge deeper into this so-called Heaven on Earth they had built for themselves. What waited was difficult. The anxious anticipation of seeing him after so many years, knowing the man’s sins—which he made no attempt to hide, much less repent—broke his heart, sickened his soul.

The priest believed whatever he said would echo through eternity. That in mind, he clung to hope. Salvation or damnation, he knew beyond any shred of doubt, was the only guarantee. Not that he ever had reason to believe otherwise. But if others knew, he thought, then shuddered as the tentacles of the living visions reached out, reality suddenly obscured when the memory boiled up, shaping into what he so feared. And had so desperately been trying to forget.

He looked at all the handsome faces. They seemed to glow from pleasure indulged, rapture in the eyes, radiant auras. How their hearts, he thought, cloaked in the illusory shadow of satisfaction, the flesh kept sated by money, kept wanting more. Behind the smiles he saw lust, greed, envy, pride and a wrath that would trample anyone who denied them what they wanted.

All the lost souls.

It struck the priest their laughter was aimed at the world, perhaps what he stood for. A few of the more curious glanced at his white collar, the severe black clothing. Some appeared to shy away, as if embarrassed or afraid their hidden selves might be found out. Everywhere he saw bold desire, preoccupation with self, what they wanted. Had he expected any different? Why did he continue to live on in hope that he could somehow reach them, save, if only a few, from perdition?

Perhaps present circumstances had rendered him too harsh and judgmental right then, but he thought not. Perhaps the train ride had simply wearied him. Nerves shot, burdened as he was by Isadora’s plight and suffering, heart crushed to agonizing pity as she urged this contact. Clearly, the way she had pleaded her case, it struck him she believed he was the last resort, the final hope.

He feared she was right.

And, just like that, it was as if he’d stepped into another dimension of time and space. Life slammed into a montage of freeze-frames. Somehow, he kept moving into the strange haze, aware he passed through white rays made ever more brilliant as they lanced through the stained-glass skylight. The living, such as they were, began lurching all about, faceless automatons. Their laughter swirled, hideous in ears that had heard the wailing of the damned, only the din now wasn’t anywhere near as infinitely terrifying. Except for the rare few children, there was no light in any of them, even their flesh appearing like so much dark jelly. The more he searched their faces, the more he dreaded the world was in such deep trouble, so many so gripped in the power of evil, he wasn’t sure if he was blessed or cursed, or strong enough to carry the message of what he’d seen.

Repent.

No human mind, he knew, could even begin to comprehend the depth and severity of the horror he had witnessed the past week. Not even he, a man of God—protected by divine guidance and assured salvation if he clung to his vows of chastity, poverty and obedience with unfailing perseverance—could fathom what he’d experienced.

The mere pale shadow of the memory nearly dropped him to his knees right then, shrieking blasphemies. He was mortified beyond terror just to think of them, as he tried but failed to focus on other words just to mute the faintest echo from his mind. There was an abominable stench of raw human waste, sulfur and flesh so putrified there was no smell—if he could even call it that—on Earth to compare it to, putrid fumes that still clung to his senses, stirring acid bile in his stomach. He’d felt the vicious clawing of utter despair that knew no depths or bounds.

Gadiz shuddered, became aware of his deep breathing, the strange looks as he marched on. Still, he felt disembodied, a man slogging through, then sinking into the sucking mud of a nightmare he couldn’t escape from. As he wanted nothing more than to flee all of this seething impurity, before he was contaminated beyond hope, he hastened the pace, flying between walls of gold, grabbing a fleeting specter of his troubled, bearded visage in mirrored pillars. The ostentation of their exclusive realm became an obscenity to him, as he passed over marble then carpet. Giant crystal chandeliers speared light into his eyes, forcing him to bend his head. There were massive frescoed mosaics of saints, the Last Supper, conquistadors, too, in bloody glory over fallen victims. It was a sacrilegious display that galled him, all manner of luminous grand landscapes promising paradise on Earth for the monied elite.

Such a deadly illusion.

He passed the bustling wide-open area that marked the shopping mall. Ahead, beyond the bank of revolving doors, he spotted the gold lion, what he thought of as their Babylonian idol, overlord of the playland. So sad, so much waste among so much excess. The sum of it all, he decided, in such stark contrast to his poor village—those souls who suffered desperate poverty in brave silence and unwavering faith. He wanted to weep for the world, for the man and his estranged wife, for himself, and his own failures, for those personal weaknesses he had nearly succumbed to, but knew would demand a final accounting.

The faster he tried to reach his destination, the harder it became. Nearly racing for the doors, he spotted a fat man in a brilliant white suit and a blond woman in a leopard skin long-coat open to brazenly display a bikini underneath. She was young enough to be the fat man’s granddaughter. They were veering toward him. Arm in arm, they were laughing for all the world to hear, what struck his ears as a loud and hideous screech. Two grim-faced men in black suit jackets were on either side, watching him from behind dark sunglasses. Their faces, all four of them, flashed into screaming burned demon masks, living images, no less, of what he’d seen in Hell, there, then gone. Gadiz gasped, fleeing their laughter as he bulled through the revolving door.

What was happening? he wondered, stumbling across the deck. Was he going mad? Had he been cursed by God? If so, why? Why did the blasphemies from the depths of Hell want to come shrieking through his mind, against his will? Was he to be tormented like this from now until the day he died and went to face his own judgment?

An angry shout sent Gadiz wheeling. He saw two dark men, large black bags in their hands, their faces flaming with rage, teeth bared in predatory savageness. Apparently he had bumped into them without realizing it. He mumbled an apology. Staggering on, his mind crying out for God to save him, he heard vicious-sounding words hurled at his back, Arabic, he believed, cursing him he was sure.

What seemed an eternity later, he was past the large group at the gold lion, the world still, jolting around him in lighting flashes, demon faces, here and there, laughter…fading…almost human.

Trying to steady his breathing, he searched the tables, mentally counting off. Halfway down the bar, he spotted him, and Gadiz felt that invisible wall of ice envelop him once more. He felt a dark presence.

Forging into the surreal mist, two more demon masks flared in the corner of his eye, then he saw human faces slowly take shape, forming themselves as if invisible hands were molding rubbery features. Two men, sitting at the bar, a short dark man in glasses, his companion with white hair, cut short—military-style, he believed—a black bag at his feet. Both so grim, he sensed hatred and dark defiance at vast odds with all the carefree madness. Passing them, the chill melted away, then Gadiz felt a smothering presence of rage and hate, as strong as ever. The white-haired man was watching him; Gadiz felt the stare drill into the back of his head.

“How do you feel about including a padre on the roster?”

Did he actually hear that? Gadiz wondered. French? Familiar, yes, with the language, only it could have been Spanish, what with sight and sound blending into a living force, it seemed, distorting everything. And then…

He was heavier by fifty pounds or so than he remembered. The man was five years his junior, but the face he saw was old and tired, heavily creased but flaccid from the good life. There was laughter, faded as it was, in the dark eyes, but a cold emptiness betrayed to Gadiz a soul weary of the world but wanting to still indulge all of its pleasures. The gray suit was silk, the diamonds and gold on his fingers and around his neck the best his wealth, he was sure, could afford. Gadiz watched as he drank from a bottle of beer, swallowed a shot of whiskey, lining it up beside three empties, then gestured at the empty chair, snapping his fingers at the same time for a waitress. While the man lit a cigarette, Father Gadiz sat.

There was silence, then the man said, “How long has it been, Father? Five, six years?”

“At the very least.”

“Father. Considering we never had one…that has a very strange ring to it, don’t you think?” He paused, trying to comprehend something, then bobbed his head, a strange smile on his lips. “Father. Or can I still call you brother?”

3

Michael Charger saw them coming, all mouth and drunken swagger, but planned to sit tight, let events unfold as they would. Come what may, the tab could never be squared from where he sat. Still, all things considered—the coked-out temper tantrums, head-lopping of writers, directors and other key staff who were expected to make gold out of crap, what with the star himself barely able to throw a believable punch without umpteen takes, slow-motion choreography or computer graphics added postproduction—he figured to enjoy a live show where life might well imitate art.

The former United States Navy SEAL captain gave his two twenty-something buddies a grin, shook his head. The two knuckleheads came into focus from the east quad. It was crystal clear where they were headed and the object of their scorn. Roy Barnwell and Jimmy Rosco fidgeted, scowling. Charger could understand their dilemma. It was called job security.

Charger knew life in the fast lane of Hollywood was their only battlefield to date. At their tender age—with their fat paychecks—he suspected they feared the all-night parties with beautiful groupies and noses dug into conveyor belts of cocaine might skid to a screeching halt. Obscure in their profession, at best, he was sure they would be first in line to get kicked off the gravy train if something should happen to Bret Cameron.

The drunks in question cranked it up another decibel, pointing and laughing at Hollywood’s latest hunk as they bridged the gap. Sid Morheim, Cameron’s agent, became a human cannonball, shot out of his leather throne. The local groupies followed his mad dash for the photographers with squeals of delight. The tabloid flunkies smelled blood, no question, ready to cash in from the anticipated fracas.

Maybe the agent had arranged a publicity stunt to sell more tickets for the guy’s latest sequel, Charger thought. As a soldier who knew the score in the real blood-and-guts world, this bunch came straight from planet Phony. In his experience there were no decent human beings in the movie business.

Were it not for who he’d been in real life, it might have bugged him to no end being the guy’s stunt double. He was often mistaken in public for the star by beautiful young barracudas. There was some resemblance in physique, but the faces didn’t quite match other than lean and mean hawkish. Age, for one thing, not so much in years, but wear and tear of grim experience under the fire of live rounds. Scars around the eyes and jaw from the kissing end of bullets were another problem, requiring touching up in the cutting room with computer graphics often switching mugs for any shot other than long. To keep Bret Cameron on top, superhuman tough for the world to behold, took three of them, and he figured they’d shared more concussions, burns, broken bones and torn ligaments, more stitches scalp to foot than many of the surviving war victims he’d seen in both Gulf wars, and beyond.

Charger could see his comrades growing more agitated to help Tyrell and Guamo run interference, but two things most likely kept them glued to their seats. One, they looked up to him, as the right stuff who had actually lived the kind of life the star only portrayed on the big screen. Two, they wouldn’t mind seeing Cameron smeared by some truly righteous press if he got knocked on his can, and let Sid the Squid spin that. Rumors were the movie star had enough skeletons to keep his agent busy greasing tabloids as it stood. The little bejeweled, toupeed agent swept dirt under the rug often over any sordid mess created by their actor.

One of the drunks was out of the agent’s stratospheric reach.

“Hey…movie star! Yeah, you, hero! How about an autograph?”

Charger lifted his beer, sipped, smiled. As the men moved for a close-up, their laughter took on a mocking note. One of them treated Cameron to an up-and-down look of pure contempt, then squeezed his package, asking his buddy in broken English why would such a big man need to pay underaged girls to lie to the tabloids about his sexual prowess.

Cameron looked stunned into paralysis by such disrespect.

The ex-SEAL suddenly wondered about that himself as he recalled whispered rumors how the star stayed so coked up Viagra was his only face-saving grace.

The show went on.

About five hundred pounds of steroid-buffed muscle, the salt-and-pepper bodyguards, made their move. The last of the teenagers, Charger saw, was scurrying off—or did Cameron give the boy a shove? The skinny kid looked flabbergasted, clutching an autographed poster like his ticket to paradise when he was nearly bowled down by Tyrell. One of the female hangers-on started giggling, looking hopeful for bloodshed. Sid Morheim bulled into the paparazzi, pink, diamond-studded fingers swishing away cameras. What Charger hoped would become a full-scale brawl, with Cameron on the deck, ended in only a short pushing and cursing contest. Reflex, though, spurred, no doubt by stung pride and a brain fried on coke, caused Cameron to wrench free of the blond trophies, step up and smash the challenger in the nose. It looked to Charger like one of Cameron’s best shots, an award winner, in fact, that mashed beak, blood taking to the air from the burst faucet all but assuring a lawsuit. Worse still—Tyrell already had the drunk in a headlock, the cheap shot sure to have been caught on film.

Then a riot nearly erupted.

Guamo descended on the other heckler, speared a palm to sternum that sent him backpedaling in a lively jig step. His windmilling arms brought down a waitress with a squeal and crash of glass on the deck. The first drunk was squawking about assault, railing on about cops and lawsuits and sucker punches. Cameron was snarling some tough guy line from a safe distance while Morheim bleated at his meal ticket to stand down. Hotel security came flying into the tussle next from out of nowhere.

Charger looked away. He’d had enough. Money would change hands, the paparazzi film would be seized or they’d be briefed in private how it should play in the papers.

Charger put his full attention back on the blond woman in the white dress and her dark companion. For his money, both of them had stolen the spotlight in passing, moments ago.

Charger’s nameless movie queen was sitting under a thatched umbrella, one long luscious leg crossed over the other, watching from a distance with a neutral look. It was her tall companion, though, who had Charger looking hard and wondering what his act was all about. The sun setting to throw dark shadows their direction, the woman’s companion was all but obscured, nothing but a tall, broad specter. But Charger had seen enough, instinct shouting to the ex-SEAL this man was solar systems different, the way he was from Bret Cameron.

Another warrior, yes, sir, tried and true, in the living flesh.

YZET GOLIC WAS DISGUSTED. An ex-captain in the Serbian army, he was used to giving the orders, followed without hesitation or fail. Once upon a time the mere mention of his name struck terror into hearts, and anyone—Serb or Muslim—paid him due respect, unless they wished to see themselves and their entire families hacked to death or shot without warning. Entire fields and valleys all over Bosnia claimed the bones of Muslim men, women and children who had been shot simply for breathing the same air. Years after they shut down the prison camp he ran, NATO do-gooders were still tripping over skulls around Sarajevo, shouting his name all the way to the Hague like an obscenity. Spineless fools. The war he’d waged, he’d long since decided, was something only a Serb understood. And it had been like that in his country—ethnic cleansing of the undesirable elements—centuries before America had bombed Serbia into surrender. Who was he, only following tradition and orders himself, to question the morality of his actions, much less be judged by the West for trying to save his own kind? Hand himself over to so-called authorities for so-called atrocities, submit, forsake his will? Never.

Life had changed drastically since the NATO peacekeepers had marched in, maintaining what was an uneasy peace, at best, between the various ethnic groups. Someone had once told him change was good. Let that same individual tell him that now and he would pump a 9 mm round from his automatic pistol between the speaker’s eyes. It was degrading enough an officer of his mighty reputation had been forced to become a common gangster in Belgrade, selling drugs, peddling whores, extorting business owners, just to survive. And with a sealed indictment out there, somewhere in Europe, with his and the old man’s names stamped on it, plastic surgery had altered his once handsome face into a stranger he barely recognized in the mirror. As for the old man, nothing could change blubbery girth like a whale, the face of a baboon.

Changes, he thought, sounded like a sad song with an abysmal desperate end.

So, what was he now, he wondered, as he heard the witch demand he refill her glass with champagne. Beyond top lieutenant for the old man, it seemed he was expected to play the gofering eunuch for Mistress of the Month. Perhaps when they served chilled vodka in Hell, he thought. He had her number, thank God, and foresight enough to have filmed their brief but torrid liaison. It was leverage he was on the verge of using, if only to warn her she’d better show him respect.

Flicking cigar ash over the railing, he glared at the scuffle, wishing for his own outlet for all the pent-up aggression that had him seeing red. From the bird’s-eye view twelve stories up he didn’t need field glasses to read the situation. Security goons were dragging off two guests who were still flailing in their grasp, shouting obscenities. Suits from the movie entourage were gesturing all around the gold lion, shrugging at other tuxedoed hotel muscle, big shots restoring calm, ready to grease the right skids so they didn’t get booted, or the incident sully their Star’s name.

Well, he had hassles of his own, he thought bitterly.

A long stare out to sea, unable to count all the vessels, and Golic wished they were back on the old man’s yacht. At least cruising the Mediterranean there seemed far less worry about constant vigilance against foreign commandos or bitter rivals. Any approaching craft was easy enough to spot, blow out of the water, if need be. As he searched the pool and its crowded deck, the vast garden and running bars, he knew any guest masquerading as some playboy could pose a threat. Perhaps the door would crash down with commandos slapping all of them in the face with those sealed indictments. Sure, they possessed bogus ID and passports. Yes, some of the local authorities were bribed into silence and submission, ready to alert them if a raid was being planned. But Golic felt the knot in his gut. Something was about to go terribly wrong.

“Yzet! Where is he?” the woman shrieked.

He clenched his jaw, willing the old man’s return. There was business with some up-and-coming club owner in the city to conduct, a deal that would make the man rich beyond his wildest hopes, while cleaning their cash.

Already galled by what he knew he would find inside the suite, he strode through the open French doors. The old man was probably indulging himself with his whores, staying drunk, but meanwhile part of their duty was to guard the party albeit in envy from the sidelines.

He found her at the deep end of the massive living room, inside the open doors, stretched on her stomach on a padded leather table. Curtains fluttered near the glass in her outstretched hand as she enjoyed the view and the evening breeze. Ilina Kradja was beautiful, Golic had to admit, and as evil as the day was long. She repeated his name like some curse word.

“I need more champagne. In the kitchen. And open a new bottle. Go, damn you! Why do you just stand there like some idiot?”

Golic snorted, puffed his cigar, held his ground. He felt the rage darken and boil, despised, too, the lust flaming in his belly, trying hard not to stare at creamy flesh shamelessly displayed. Whether for the envy of the whores—the scantily clad trollops lounged on the huge horseshoe-shaped tiger-skinned couch, or to amuse herself over the torment his own soldier was forced to endure as he massaged her, it was clear she was charged by showing off her stark nakedness. Having seen such an exhibition before, Golic could already hear her wicked laughter when Nikimko, the masseur, excused himself after the rubdown for a prolonged absence in the bathroom.

When she reminded him of his lowly status, embellished with lying taunts about his manhood and finally calling him boychick, it felt as if the core of his brain erupted with hot lava. He took a few steps her way then stopped and pinned her with a cold stare. “Amazing,” he said.

Through the thunder in his ears he somehow heard the viper spit, “What? What is so amazing, boychick?”

A few of the whores, swiping at their noses, looked from the porn movie on the giant-screen television to Kradja, then watched him closely. Golic wondered why it had taken him so long to work up the courage, as he told her, “You have everything a woman could want, but you are never satisfied.”

“How dare…”

“Shut up! You are a despicable creature, Ilina Kradja,” he snarled, his lust firing to new and darker depths as she lay there, trembling, shocked, speechless.

“You are a bottomless pit of demands. Unless there is endless money you can consume or much social stature to bask in, men are nothing but peasants in your eyes, to be held in your contempt, ignored, or trampled by your wretched existence.”

Golic was moving away as she sputtered, “Come back here! I will have your balls cut off and nailed to the wall for speaking to me like that! Do you hear me?”

He heard the door chimes instead. The old man’s raucous laughter sounded as he came stumbling down the wide foyer, Krysha pawing him upright, brushing the white jacket. Vidan and Radic took up in the rear. Golic waited while the boss and his plaything of the hour moved down the steps. He could feel Ilina’s smoldering fire, but knew she’d keep her mouth shut. Knowing her, she’d scheme of other ways to make his life miserable while keeping Dragovan Vikholic in the dark.

Impatient to discuss business, Golic scowled while the boss launched into a brief tirade about the hotel, cursing its guests and the slow service, but almost in the same breath laughing what a grand time he was having.

“Oh, my little princess,” he said, slobbering all over Krysha’s face, “how I wish I could stay here forever. Kiss Daddy with some sugar, if it so please you.”

Golic tuned out the spectacle, wondering where the hell his life was headed, when he heard the chimes again. Vidan wheeled about-face and headed back down the foyer. Golic hoped it was the new pigeon.

He was moving away from the steps, about to clear his throat and call to Vikholic, when he heard what sounded like a loud thud. Instinct flared to angry life. Visions of commandos storming the suite taking shape in his mind like winged demons, he whirled toward the foyer, cigar snapped off between clenched teeth. He was digging out his pistol when he spied the object, spewing a funnel of smoke, before it arced overhead, sailing on. A glimpse of armed invaders in gas masks, then the acrid cloud swarmed Golic, legs folding as a black veil dropped over his eyes.

HAMID BHARJKHAN CAUTIONED himself against overconfidence. They were in. There was never any real doubt about initial penetration—Spanish operatives had been planted as employees a year earlier with the assistance of their financiers—but this simply started the clock. Head shrouded in a black hood as were the others. He unleathered the sound-suppressed Spanish 9 mm Star automatic pistol from his shoulder holster and marched off the private security-service elevator. The halls were clear, but why wouldn’t they be?

He waved an arm and they raced into action. Two large bellhop dollies, heaped with black bags, rolled off the cage. Assault rifles were set on the carpeted floor, and two teammates went to work. One of them opened the panel, wiring the elevator car immobile, but slated to rise for the south edge of the lobby should the order come down, while the other freedom fighter, he glimpsed, was priming the plastic explosive for his radio remote box.

As he led the armed wave toward the open door of the main security-surveillance room midway down the narrow hall, he knew it was a moment to shine, absorb the divine power of Allah. How many months sweating it out in the North African sun, the endless hours of operational planning, running mock-ups? The forged documents, holing up, a day or so at a time, in cities across France, then Spain, to smoke out any tails. Bribing or forcing key individuals to get the critical wheels turning to pave the way, swearing them to secrecy under the threat of sudden death. Slipping their teams into the hotel as guests, with gear and weapons, two and three at a time.

The future was theirs to seize.

Point men for the dollies, four of his brothers hit the corridor on his right wing, AK-74s poised to blast anyone who wasn’t where they were supposed to be right then. Stairwells, air vents that could double as insertion points from up top, the self-contained plant powering utilities, all were committed to memory from blueprints. The demo team vanished from sight, gone to rig the netherworld. In the event they needed to blow a crater, a series of massive explosions—or so the educated guess went—could take out the entire first floor. There was talk, during the final brief, that the blasts could so damage the foundation, the first floor and walls all but gone as support, the whole building could collapse. Recalling their laughter over what they envisioned as a possible miniversion of the World Trade Center, he only hoped he was clear when the floors began to pancake, shoving the image of being buried alive beneath tons of rubble from his mind as he led his six remaining fighters of Team Black to the door.

Two lagging behind to watch the hall, Bharjkhan charged through the doorway. He took a sweeping head count, believed they were all present, as his warriors barged past him, weapons raking the room. They were frozen, men and women in their seats or where they stood, eyes bulged in shock and horror. Someone screamed as his men shouted in Spanish for them to get their hands up and stretch out on the floor. Bharjkhan showed them a smile through the slit in his mask. They had been gathered there by the head of security to wait for a priority but phantom briefing on possible terrorism. As they stared back at their living nightmare, Bharjkhan nearly laughed out loud at the swift ease of the moment. Other than a suicidal fool, who would dare to stop them now?

4

“I think the movie star was the main attraction of that little scene. If I am not mistaken he hit that man when his bodyguard grabbed him. Bret something or other,” the other beautiful woman stated.

The show over, Mack Bolan noted the entourage, ringed by added security, rolling in herd toward the hotel, presumably seeking shelter from any more storms. “I wouldn’t know who he is,” he replied.

“You are American. You never see movies?”

“I never seem to get the chance.”

“Really. What does a retired homicide detective from Baltimore do with, I would imagine, so much time on his hands?”

“He starts over.”

“In Barcelona?”

“Could be.”

She seemed to think about something, then said, “Perhaps there is too much time, lonely time to pass. Someone you may care to spend such time with.”

He nodded, sipped his beer. “I’m doing that now.”

“Kat. You can call me Kat,” she said, smiling.

He felt her stare, the stunning Ukrainian blonde probing him closely from the other side of the table. “I remember. Kat to your close friends, Katerina Muscovky to everyone else.”

“Among other things to remember, I hope. And you, are you more than a close friend to Kat? Forgive me,” she quickly added, turning away to watch the crowd, shifting in her chair. “I had no right to imply there is anything more than what there already is.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Kat.” He looked at her. “I couldn’t have dreamed of time better spent with such a beautiful woman.”

She paused, then, shifting gears, said, “You do not belong here.”

A curve ball, but he kept his look and voice neutral. “How’s that?”

She sipped her drink, weighing whatever was on her mind for a long moment. “I do not know…there is something about you. Different. You are not like any man I have ever met. Certainly not like these jet-setters and playboys, most of whom because of their money pretend to know what being a man is all about. You, on the other hand…well, beyond what is already obvious to me, I sense you are only passing through, coming from some place I could never begin to understand. Two nights we have been together, making love, and you tell me so little about yourself. I do not know who—perhaps what—you really are.” She paused, and when he didn’t respond, said, “I am prying, but I cannot help myself. I should know better, having seen both the good and the bad the world has to offer. You do not mind if I act like some infatuated teenaged girl?”

“Kat, there are men right now who would like nothing more than for me to drop dead just for the chance to sit here with you.”

An enigmatic smile passed over her lips. “The way in which I caught the movie star look at me perhaps? Not that it would matter in the least to me. He is not a true man, only concerned about how he looks, whatever pleases him. I have seen fame, it does not impress me. What the famous show the world, what others think they love and aspire to be like is rarely what they get in person.”

Mack Bolan thought she could have spoken no truer words. The ex-super model fell silent. She was done fishing for the moment about Matt Cooper, appearing content to watch the crowd, work on her drink, enjoy time spent together. The silence was comfortable enough, the kind, he supposed, shared between lovers where trust and respect didn’t require an out-pouring of talk to keep their bond from being severed.

He began scanning the crowd, nagged suddenly by a troubled feeling he couldn’t pin down. Relax, reflect, recharge the warrior, let physical wounds heal, scars on the heart fade from witnessing firsthand man’s inhumanity to man. Or so—urged by Hal Brognola, his longtime friend from the Justice Department—this brief stint of R and R was meant to do.

Strange how it never really worked that way, he decided, not in his world, where he would soon enough return. His companion couldn’t possibly fathom the dark, bloody arena he came from. But she was right on one point. She was unaware of his real identity, the real man behind the concocted cover story he’d given her in one of the hotel’s bars the night they met. No, he would never fit in with this crowd of rich and famous types, worlds apart even from the few vacationing families he’d seen. His own experience was light-years from this fleeting illusion where all was money, pleasure and bliss. Where life was just one big party.

Different worlds, no question, as day to night, life to death.

And they would never know it, of course, but the man also known as the Executioner waged a War Everlasting on their behalf, prepared, in fact, to give the ultimate sacrifice, if need be, so they could live free whatever their lives.

He was out of his element, he knew, a lion in a cage. Certainly it was not in his warrior’s nature to kill time in a resort, rub elbows with the privileged elite while standing down. Similar in remote orbit, he supposed, but another universe removed nonetheless when compared to the humble man of the cloth he’d spotted. The priest struck him as if he wished he was anywhere but there, if he read the agitated body language right. And who were the loners? Six, maybe seven or eight at last count. Swarthy guys, hardly unusual for this part of the world, all with similar black bags in hand, smart business suits, strolling the pool deck, trying to look casual behind the shades.

Why couldn’t he just unwind?

He recalled Spain was lately becoming an incubator for the kind of fanatics he hunted to extermination, a magnet for all walks of life, it seemed, legit and otherwise from all over Europe and Russia.

He’d been in France, and the chartered flight had allowed him to bring the Beretta 93-R and .44 Magnum Desert Eagle along, both stowed in a customized briefcase charged with an electrified field to jolt the curious or the thief into instant but nonlethal collapse. Bearing that in mind, he tried to will himself to relax but he felt a stalking invisible presence, one he knew all too well from sixth sense earned the hard and old-fashioned way.

“The hotel management is throwing a party in the ballroom for its guests in honor of its one-year opening. Or we could just order room service and…” He realized Muscovky was still speaking.

Her voice faded as Bolan spotted the white-haired man emerge from the bar. Just a strong hunch, but he sensed the guy didn’t belong. The Executioner knew the type, having seen it countless times: a predator. Only this one, Bolan thought, was uneasy in his present appearance and environs but holding it all together around so much choice meat. The look was right, hard and lean, the gait military, but loose and oiled, proud of the way he could handle himself thanks to hard-earned experience. The man had a stare that devoured the model’s flesh. A penetrating search lingered on Bolan, the guy doing his damnedest to figure him out, but coming up short. That same sixth sense told Bolan the man was dying to look back, but he kept heading for the doors, bag in hand, walking with purpose.

“Matt? Hello? Did you hear me?”

Bolan hoped the forced smile masked his inner rumbling. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat, and said, “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’d prefer just us. Unless…”

“No,” she said, her puzzled expression softening into a smile. “It is what I had hoped you would say. So? Your room…or shall we use my place again?”

“Your place. The view’s better,” Bolan told her with a smile. He held the expression, feeling she wanted to push it, then she nodded.

He preferred to stick to her suite, lest she be tempted to ask questions, such as why, when he was so far from home, did he have only the briefcase and a small duffel with a change of clothes. The soldier considered stopping by his second-floor room, just the same. Then again, switching the weapons to his duffel, or putting the briefcase in her suite might only arouse female curiosity, questions nonetheless.

Still, all the dead enemies burned down in his wake, many of whom were sure to have vengeful surviving allies, friends or relatives—a chance encounter or stalking him—there was always the possibility, slim as it might be considering his surroundings…

Leave it, he told himself.

He felt that dark nagging again, thinking he should be within easy distance of his weapons, no matter what. Was it just old habits not wanting to die for one second? Take it easy, he told himself. Enjoy one more rare night off the battlefield with a beautiful woman. He reached over to take Katerina’s hand.

“One more drink?” she asked.

“Sounds good to me,” Bolan said.

5

The woman’s sniveling about being a mother darkened his rage as her cries edged toward hysteria. Her ample stomach told him she was pregnant. Good, he decided. When they had something they were so terrified of losing—beyond their own lives, of course—then total compliance was all but assured. Her plight alone should make a perfect example to the others. Obey, or his wrath knew no limits, no outrage too great.

As the last of cell phones, pagers, IDs and walkie-talkies were piled in the far corner, Bharjkhan walked up to the woman and jammed the muzzle of his pistol to her forehead. She choked on her shriek, eyes widening in terror and the sound dissolved into a whimper. As she began to collapse, two of his men grabbed her shoulders. Yamil forced her up, barking curses and threats in her ear, shaking her out of her trance as Khajid finished fastening the dynamite vest around her torso. Suddenly there was a vicious curse, and a hostage rose from the group of corralled captives.

Yelling obscenities in Arabic, two of Bharjkhan’s men pummeled the would-be hero’s face and head with the butts of their assault rifles. Blood spurting as repeated blows pulped his nose, they drove the man to the floor, vicious kicks opening skin around the eyes and scalp until he didn’t move.

“If anyone speaks or moves,” Bharjkhan told them, grabbing the pregnant woman’s hair and thrusting her face up, inches from his slitted eyes, “I will kill your colleague here and choose another to take her place.” He let go, grunting for his men to take her out in the hall.

As he moved for the bank of security monitors, he ran a stare over the hostages. There were thirty-six captives, mostly men. All of them had their hands bound behind their backs with plastic cuffs, and had been dumped, facedown, on the floor. His black-clad men were planting blocks of C-4 primed for radio remote detonation around the room. In the event someone attempted to make contact before it all began, Bharjkhan would use the assistant head of security to lure them into joining the group.

The man who had made this part of the operation possible was being removed from the room. Fulfilling the charade, the bit player was squawking questions, pleading cooperation all the way out the door. The act, complete with bleating to at least release the women, had the desired effect on some of the captives. He heard a muffled sob, found two faces twisted his way, hate and defiance in the eyes. Filing away their faces, he decided they were next to be executed should there be any more interruptions.

“Do not resist and none of you will be hurt,” Bharjkhan said, stepping in front of the security monitors. “All of you, just relax,” he added, his tone as soothing and reassuring as he could fabricate.

Checking his watch, ticking down the numbers, he began looking at each monitor. The miniature cameras, he knew, were built into statues, hidden in palmettos and other shrubbery, mounted inside the frames of paintings or mirrors. Safeguarding themselves against invasion of privacy lawsuits, the hotel architects had not fitted any of the rooms or lavatories with minicams, but that wasn’t necessarily a problem. Each floor, he observed, was covered from the south and north ends, double eyes for front and rear watching on each camera. Close-ups came with a twist of a dial on his panel, if necessary. The high-tech spying included the broad scope of the lobby, shopping mall, pool, all playground interiors, bars and restaurants. It was near one hundred percent visual precision, as far as he could tell, in both sweep and clarity. That the building’s designers, he thought, didn’t install cameras in the basement complex beyond the watcher’s lair had allowed them to get in and take down the hostages, but could be a problem—perhaps a fatal one—if commandos responded.

However, breaching their defenses would be suicide. Unless, of course, they were willing to overlook initial devastating casualties. Again, he thought with confidence, no one, once warned, would be that daring, or foolish.

Bhajkhan plucked the handheld radio off his belt. “Abdul! Report.” He scanned the lobby traffic, thinning out as people made their way for bars and restaurants. Spotting two men with black bags in business suits ambling to the desk, he smiled. Four other men he recognized from Team Red were lounging around the lobby, comfortable in big leather armchairs, smoking, reading newspapers or magazines. There would be others, he knew, some of them unseen until it started, but all of them ready for the big event.

“We are sealed in,” came the answer in Arabic. “Should they pass through the motion sensors outside the service doors and stairwells—”

“Yes, yes. I want to know about the elevators,” Bharjkhan said.

“As I feared. Even with our software program tied into the main engineering computer that powers their electricity, with the elevators constantly moving, we still need thirty minutes, perhaps more. We discussed this, the number of cars alone…”

There were eight banks of two cars, staggered at roughly equal intervals, east to west, north to south. Including service cars for staff, he was well aware of the numbers, understood the task. “You do not have thirty minutes,” he growled. “Do it quickly and do not call me until it is done. And I do not want to hear any more about fear. Understood?” He punched off before Abdul could respond.

Bharjkhan felt the heat from anxiety rise, willing Abdul to hurry and complete the critical chore as he looked at his watch. The first sheen of sweat showed on his face. He glanced at the doorway when he heard the head of security cry, “No! Wait—”

He heard a muffled chug from the far end of the corridor, followed by the thud of deadweight. Bharjkhan returned to watching the screens. Just a few more minutes and he would become the great and avenging warrior of jihad he had dreamed about since fleeing the hateful occupation of his country.

6

“Why do you look at me like that? I am not sure if you despise me or…or what.”

Father Gadiz, snapped out of the trance by his brother’s voice, was unaware he’d been searching his face. Just what had he been looking for? The demon mask? There was no veil of diseased and burned flesh draped over Andres. Was there hope that he was not altogether lost? Was there some light still left in the eyes showing his soul had not been completely stained?

“Okay. You went through all this trouble to track me down. I take it you wish to relay a message? Tell me, did Isadora plead for me to come back? All is forgiven, we can live happily ever after?”

The priest felt his jaw clench. Unsure if he felt contempt, pity or anger toward Andres, he watched his brother gulp another shot, wash it back with beer, blow smoke. How pitifully tragic, he thought. All that pain and anger, eating up his soul, a festering cancer. Did he even care? The more he drank to calm the beast inside, the beast only grew stronger, soon enough to snap its chains. He could see that beast now, a warning beacon of rage building in the eyes.

“Speak, Father, please! Your silence is becoming insufferable.”

“You do not even bother to try to hide this shame. It leads me to wonder…” Gadiz said.

Andres snorted. “If it was worth your trouble to come all the way here and try to save my soul from eternal damnation? If when the gates of Hell are slamming on my face I will remember how you warned me so?”

“You would be wise to watch your tongue, Andres. You were once a believer.”

The priest fell silent, weighing his next words carefully, wondering if he should just get up and leave, stung to near outrage as he was by his brother’s mocking. No, too easy, he thought, it was what his brother probably wanted. Further, there was his own accountability to consider, if he didn’t harness the strength to persevere.

Andres, clearing his throat—was that shame flashing through his eyes?—inquired if he wanted something to drink. Oh, how he did, more than ever. He felt every flaming inch of his broken heart, the terrible burning ache with each awful pounding. He was tempted but declined.

Briefly Gadiz recalled the period where he’d indulged what had proved a near-fatal weakness in more ways than one. It had been so close, his own journey toward the abyss, teetering at the edge, so many nights wasted in an alcohol haze, questioning to near despair his own faith, his commitment to souls and to God. The young woman, restless and yearning to leave the village and her husband for the big city, had come almost weekly for confession. At her urging he began private counseling.

Where the Devil, he was certain, had conspired against him.

The woman had agonized over her habitual adultery, he remembered, but blamed her husband for the hateful trap her life had become. He had so despised his own thoughts toward her. He was wracked, worst of all, by such guilt and shame over his own lust, the bottle seemed his only relief from torment. Only the more he sought to drown the voice—the dark half of his own conscience, he believed—the more it urged him on, so persistent he thought he would go mad. He prayed almost nonstop for relief. He did not cave in nor pursue his desire, his only saving grace he was sure. But only when he stopped drinking for good, made his own confession, were his prayers answered. The taunting voice faded to nothing, the urge gradually died altogether.

“Your wife, she prays, but not for your return, Andres,” he said, and saw his brother flinch, no doubt all that monstrous vanity shouting to him that such a thing was preposterous beyond all reason. “Isadora is a woman strong of faith. She is at Mass every day. She lights candles. She says the rosary. Where you live in lavish luxury, indulge all the pleasures of the good life you have acquired through your club or whatever else…she barely has bread and water to sustain her life.”

Scowling, Andres broke eye contact. “What would you have me do? If it’s money—”

“You foolish stupid man,” Gadiz said, jolting his brother with the sudden anger in his voice. “She does not want your money.”

Andres spread his arms, truly baffled. “Then, what?”

Father Gadiz sighed, shook his head, but pushed on, saying, “I know you can see her, even if you have not thought of her in years. Picture her, kneeling before the crucifix or the Virgin Mother, praying for her own soul, but also that your heart will change, that you will renounce your ways and put them behind before it is too late.”

He thought he saw something change in his brother’s eyes, as his body went utterly still. “To her, Andres, your soul is the only important thing. That is how much she loves you. Your return to your wife, of course, would depend on you. But do it, I should warn you, only if your heart is right in the eyes of God.”

He watched as his brother’s features seemed to shrivel, eyes dropping toward his next drink. Were those tears he fought to hold back?

Andres swallowed more whiskey. He quickly hardened back to anger.

Shocked by the depth of his sudden bitter disappointment, the priest stood to leave, then Andres, almost in a panic, said, “Wait. Please, don’t go. I don’t know how to live.”

Gadiz stared at his brother. “What did you say?”

Andres cleared his throat, cracked his knuckles, eyes cast down. “Will you sit with me? Please, brother.”

Watching Andres closely, the priest sensed the torment. He sat.

Andres fiddled with his bottle of beer. “Do you know how much I hated him? How much the mere memory of the man makes me hate him? If I could dig him up…oh, but I’m sure you will tell me you pray for his soul to rest in peace, that God’s mercy knows no limits.”

“I understand your feelings, Andres. I was there. You mention infinite mercy, but likewise God’s justice knows no limits. It’s out of our hands, try to come to peace with at least that much. Are you so dead inside that you can’t even hear yourself? That what you so hate you have now become.”

“Which is what? A drunkard, a philanderer, a hedonistic scoundrel?”

“Yes,” Gadiz replied.

“I never beat Isadora within an inch of her life like he did our mother—or us for that matter. I never even cursed my wife! Yes, I know how that sounds, me trying to justify both my hatred for him and how I am living.”

“That is exactly how it sounds.”

In a harsh whisper, Andres said, “I tried…I wanted only a family. Two…we had two sons.”

“And I have taken that into account, but that does not excuse you.”

Andres stared off into the distance. There was fire in his eyes when looked back. “Why? Tell me, what did they ever do to be taken, and so young, to die so terribly…and from an illness that to this day no doctor can name? And does she, for all her virtue and noble poverty, ever for even one minute feel the kind of anger toward God that I feel?”

“If she did, I am unaware of it, and certainly her actions speak for how she feels in her heart,” the priest replied.

“Which is what? That it was God’s will our sons were taken from us and that she was left barren? That it’s God’s will I have become so wretched? Do you have an answer for me?”

Gadiz did, but he wasn’t sure his brother would listen, much less accept it.

“Tell me, Jose. I need an answer.”

“I cannot sit here and claim I know God’s will for your life. I know only what it isn’t. It takes courage to do what is right, Andres, that much I know. Evil is easy. It is a broad path of unrestrained laughter and song and pleasure. Evil is a coward and a liar. Evil is an illusion that will grant you what you think it is you so desire, but the price the soul has to pay is beyond the worst of any and all horrors on Earth.” He paused, wondering how to proceed. “Is there anything you wish for me to tell Isadora?”

Andres swallowed another drink, scowled, turned sullen. “Tell her whatever you wish.”

The priest stood. “Goodbye, Andres.”

“Wait!”

“What is it now? You wish to know about our village?” Gadiz asked, growing exasperated.

“Perhaps.”

“It is dying like all villages and hamlets across Spain. Only the elderly and the widows remain—”

“And the few faithful.”

“Yes, the few faithful it would seem. Most of the young, they have run off to the cities to chase, I fear, whatever their own illusions.”

“I meant to say, you have come so far, stay. What kind of brother would I be if I didn’t at least put you up for the night and feed you?”

The priest shook his head, turned away. “This place makes me very uncomfortable. I’m sure you have other plans.”

“Wait a minute!”

Frowning, the priest looked back, anxious to leave, but he was suddenly overwhelmed by the pleading in his brother’s voice.

“I may never see you again,” Andres said.

“That much could well be true.”

“I have a room here, and, yes, before you say it, it is a suite on the top floor. A spectacular view of the sea, you can relax after your long journey. We can order dinner. Consider if this is to be our last time together…”

The priest let out a long breath, closed his eyes, then felt as if his very soul was suddenly branded by an image of his brother’s wife. What he knew from his brief visit with her was more than enough to bear. So clear in all its painful truth, it was as if he could reach out and touch her. Isadora sitting by herself that night, as always, in the cramped quarters of the small modest home she once shared with his brother. Eating alone, as always, if she had any food at all, grateful if she did. Praying before she went to sleep. He wondered if she ever slept at all.

“I have some business to conduct,” Andres said. “But I’ll make it brief, if I don’t excuse myself altogether. If you could wait for me upstairs?”

“I don’t know…”

“What is one night?”

Father Gadiz made the decision based on hope. “Very well.”

7

Trust wasn’t a word found anywhere in his playbook. But part of the deal now, it demanded unconditional trust, total submission.

As in his surrender to fate.

From Jarrod Harmon’s standpoint, this was the real dicey stretch where it could all go south. Just in case, he had a trump card or two in the event some treacherous traitor reared his hooded head.

Let in on cue by the call from his cell phone with its secure line of the highest state-of-the-art caliber, Harmon allowed himself to be manhandled a few steps down the foyer. The faceless, black-clad two-man escort presumably made a show for any watching eyes—if anyone could even see from their positions around the ornately carved post and flanking statues blocking out part of the room—as they shoved him against the wall. First, they liberated his duffel bag, then relieved him of the Browning, one of them growling for him to spread his arms and legs.

“Take it easy,” he hissed. “You do know who I am, right?”

“We do.”

At least the assault rifles weren’t aimed his way as they patted him down. A good omen for success all the way down the line, he thought. Then he heard one of the terrorists shouting for someone to shut up, or a woman would be raped then shot before his eyes. A gruff, heavily accented voice began cursing in broken English, issuing threats there was no hope in hell of bringing to fruition. Had to be the Serb boss trying to save face. Then the familiar crack of flesh-on-flesh from a resounding slap to somebody’s face brought on hard silence, except for muffled whimpering by a female captive or two.

“I’ll keep the one in my jacket pocket,” Harmon told the two men, keeping his voice low as he referred to the Walther PPK, watching the dark orbs inside the slits, burning back at him with hatred. “And leave the hands uncuffed, just like I know the man told you to do.”

“You are very confident of your position,” one of the masked men said.

Harmon didn’t like the sound of that, but he showed them a smile. “It pays to know the right people.”

“For your sake you had better hope so.”

“Let’s do this, so you can get busy spreading your sunshine,” he replied.

SLIMDER VERSUS SLIMDER HE called it, but only to himself and in a rare lucid moment when there was blessed silence in his head. No mistake, it was a schizophrenic dance through those talking minefields—phantom or otherwise—and on the best days. On the worst days he knew it was sheer terror and relentless stalking madness.

By far, he was having one of his worst days.

He heard the ghosts of the not-so-distant past howl, trapped inside his skull. Outraged and vengeful, as usual, but they were really dug in now, the specters shrieking so loud, it seemed, he was shaken to where he felt he’d burst out of his skin. Why wouldn’t they just go away? He wanted to scream out loud, but was somehow aware he wasn’t alone in the suite. All he wanted…

Leave me alone! he thought.

Can’t do it, good buddy, one of the voices said. We know what you wanted. Hey, no need for the big-shot vice prez of Tampa Bay Bank and Trust to explain. It’s a done deal, remember? Those real-estate investments hatched when the whiskey was going down, nice and smooth. All that free money funneled and cleaned through the Cayman Islands, both eyes toward the grand future, knowing the good life you envied in others would soon become more than fantasy. So, what’s with the whimpering? What were you going to do? Sit behind a desk the rest of your life and count other people’s money?

He wanted the thoughts to stop.

No, the voice went on, shut up and listen to reason for once in your sorry life. Pretty slick, by the way—I’ll give you credit for that golden tongue—all those promises to the elderly, the Sunshine State still the Eastern Seaboard’s promised land of milk and honey, the biggest real-estate boom to date on the horizon. How, if they jumped on board a sure thing, they could kick back and just smile at the setting sun of their lives, in lavish comfort they only dreamed about during their working years. Hurricanes? Saints forbid. All covered by this new platinum insurance purchased through the investment, not even a category five could wipe you out if you sign the dotted line with us.

Oh, God, what had he done?

Stop whining! So you cleaned them out. So a lot of the old buzzards were scraping by on Social Security. They’ll be rotting in the ground soon enough anyway, but you have your whole life ahead of you. Relax, you’ve been lifted out of the ashes. And forget that cold shrew of a wife while you’re at it, they’ll never find her. Nice job, another salute, catching her asleep like that. No noise, a little struggle, though, when she woke up and realized what was happening. Using your hands like that, a gun would have been less personal, but think of the mess to clean up. Women, huh. They just don’t understand, even when you kill them. All you wanted was a taste, figured you were owed, and you were right. So you squandered money on hookers and drugs, but at least you got some, still do, but more now than ever with all that cash, and for a guy who looks like…

Stop the madness! he thought, fighting to clear his head.

Madness? the voice queried. Stop the sniveling! Be a man. You made the choice, deal with it. This is what you want, this is what you get…

“Did you say something over there?” a female voice suddenly intruded.

The girls. They were looking at him oddly.

Get a grip, he told himself. They were too beautiful for him to screw this up, to send them screaming out the door as if they thought he was some psycho, gibbering to himself. Somehow he found himself at the wet bar, building another double whiskey. He cursed the violent trembling in his hand, then one whispering Slimder assured him it was just the shakes from too much booze. One down the hatch would get him right. What the hell was this next urging? he wondered, as he gulped the drink. Twitching, he gazed into the darkening expanse of the Mediterranean, the voice sounding as if it called to him from the sea.

I can’t stop you. Do what you must if that’s what you really want.

Do what? Jump over the rail? Give all this up? It was twelve stories down. It would all be over before he knew it, mashed to gooey nothing like the parasite…

Breathe slow, concentrate. Drink some more whiskey, the voice commanded.

And it faded. Thank God for the warm elixir flooding through him, drowning the voice. Hell, he thought, embracing the slow return of silent reality, any number of things could have caused all this maddening anxiety and agitation. He drained the glass, then reached for the half-empty bottle. All the pills he consumed just to heave himself in and out of bed these days. All the coke snorted. All the Viagra swallowed when he needed help in the pinch. All the booze required just to keep him standing some days.

No wonder he was going crazy.

Then he heard the two recently divorced thirty-something women giggling from the couch. How sweet life was, he thought, back to beautiful blissful reality, watching as they loaded more rock into the glass stem. Taut, tan bodies, a lot of flesh showing, what with the halters and miniskirts. All these years, a pudgy little slob like him, and he could only dream. But now…

He’d met them in one of the hotel’s many bars and just a few hours earlier. They were staying at the hotel indefinitely, looking for action now that they’d shed the hubbies and kids. Starting over like he was, from Topeka or Iowa or some such godawful place he’d never have to see. Buying them drinks, plying them, then flashing cash—he never left his suite without at least twenty grand walking-around money. A stroll through the shops, big spender that he was buying the girls a couple of mink coats ordered through one of his many bogus credit cards. His personal coke supply sealed the deal, now he just needed to push the envelope some.

“James, why don’t you come over here and join us? It’s your stuff, hon.”

“Yeah, you look like you could use one.”

James, not Jim, or the always loathsome Jimmy. Hon to boot. His stuff. His Presidential Suite, the Eden Suite they called it. Lush tropical vegetation, flower garden around a small pond in the living room, live exotic fish optional if he wanted to dump one of the tanks. He was the new Adam, all right, only blessed with two Eves. Paradise adorned with gleaming white marble and gold trim, he had to keep the lights turned low or the blinding brightness would all but obscure such a heavenly view.

“James, did you order room service?”

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