WHOLESALE SLAUGHTER

A massive black-market weapons bazaar, where someone with enough money could outfit a small nation, becomes Stony Man’s highest-priority target. And Mack Bolan is determined to be on this year’s guest list. Setting out undercover into the African desert, he’s about to close in when U.S. aircraft and armored vehicles—operated by men in American uniform—annihilate the crowd.

The truth soon becomes clear. A growing syndicate struck the site in disguise to behead the smaller crime organizations and absorb what was left. While all eyes are on the U.S. to explain what happened, Bolan goes on the hunt for the real power behind the bloodbath. And the trail leads to the South China Sea, where a mysterious billionaire has launched an assault on the world’s major ports. Hijacked cargo ships are heading for international cities. Unless Bolan can stop them...

Bolan tossed the device into the backseat

“Damn, that thing is handy,” James said. “Stony Man ought to license it to the cops to stop speeders.”

“Yeah,” Bolan said, “and it also fried the vatos’ cells so that they can’t call for help. Who knew EMP could be so helpful?”

“Uh, how are we gonna catch all these guys?”

“We’ll have to round them up the old-fashioned way....” Bolan trailed off as he felt a warm circle of metal press into the back of his neck hard, pushing his head forward. He froze.

“All right, putas. Move just an inch and I’ll splatter your brains all over the car.”

Enemy Arsenal

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Weapons are an important factor in war, but not the decisive one; it is man and not materials that counts.

—Mao Tse-Tung

A weapon is not evil in and of itself—it is merely a tool, one that can be used by evil men against the innocent, or by good men to protect the innocent. When I take up arms against evil, it is with the sole notion to protect the innocent and punish the guilty.

—Mack Bolan

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Travis Morgan for his contribution to this work.

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

A glass of chilled champagne dangling between his fingers, James Barrett leaned on the luxury yacht’s polished teakwood railing and watched the golden-red sun sink into the deep blue waters of the glass-smooth South China Sea.

Sure is a far cry from Nebraska, he thought. Indeed, he’d never imagined seeing this much water in his life, not counting a family vacation to the Great Lakes when he was ten years old. Barrett glanced back at the receding Philippine Islands, where he’d just spent three intoxicating days. He was living the life he’d always dreamed of, but every moment, every second of pleasure he tried to enjoy was colored by the faint, niggling feeling that he didn’t deserve any of it, that he was, quite simply—a fraud.

But he knew that was just his father talking again. Barrett had worked harder than anyone he knew to achieve what he had, beginning with working two jobs to scrape up the money to attend the state university; suffering the ribbing of his redneck coworkers for studying during his lunch break at the slaughterhouse; going home after a full shift just four hours before class started and standing in the shower for thirty minutes, trying to wash the blood and dead meat stink out of his skin and hair; fighting to stay awake in his classes, knowing he had to work another twelve-hour shift that night, and somehow bull through a full class load of homework and papers, as well, week after week, month after month.

It had taken him five years, but at the end, he had graduated not only with a diploma, but also with a partial scholarship to Yale, thanks to an endowment from one of Lincoln’s founding families. The scholarship had the unusual stipulation that the winner had to attend a school outside the state, and Barrett wondered if whoever had set it up had hated the endless, flat plains as much as he did.

Compared to getting through college, law school was easier, at least on his body. His mind was taxed to the limit, but Barrett relished the purely intellectual challenge after years of backbreaking labor. He excelled there, interning at the Yale Law Journal and matching wits and legal expertise with some of the finest minds in the nation.

“A peso for your thoughts.”

As always, the sound of that sultry voice behind him made a frisson of delight course through his body. He turned to see a goddess-made-flesh walking toward him, dressed in a bikini that barely covered her slender body. Her bronze skin glowed in the fading rays of the tropical sun, under a long, silky mane of honey-blond hair that cascaded down her back and shoulders. Over the tiny swimsuit she almost didn’t have on was a sheer, silky white hip-length peignoir that fluttered in the gentle ocean breeze, revealing tantalizing glimpses of long leg and the delightful swell of her breasts. Barrett shifted his stance, letting his loose cargo shorts hide the sudden tightness in his groin.

“Just had to come out and watch the sunset again.”

She smiled, revealing even white teeth. “I figured as much. Dad and my brothers can get to be a bit much after a few drinks.”

“Hey, it wasn’t them. I like your father, really. He accepts me for who I am, just like his daughter.”

“Mmm, I like the sound of that.” She stepped close to him, the scent of jasmine and coconut body lotion almost overpowering him. Slipping her slim arms around his neck, she leaned up and kissed him, her lush lips tasting like a combination of sweet guava, rum and mint. Her tongue teased his, drawing it out, then darting back and forth. James wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close, his love-fogged brain barely remembering not to crush her to him, the way he wanted to do every time she came near.

He’d first met Rachel Kirkall during his junior year, at a frat party he had wrangled an invitation to for no good reason he could think of at the time. Later, he had wondered more than once if it was fate. Spying a blond-haired vision across the raucous living room awash in loud music, body shots and pot, he had homed in on her as if in a trance. Upon arrival, however, he had interrupted a drunken fraternity brother’s clumsy advances by “accidentally” spilling his beer on the guy, then ducking his clumsy swing and burying a fist that had seen its share of fights into the blue-blood’s stomach, leaving him retching on the floor.

He’d expected the blond beauty to be shocked, but instead she’d said, “Thanks, now let’s get out of here.” Grabbing his hand, she had pulled him into the rainy night. They had found a nearby Starbucks, and spent the next four hours deep in conversation.

He’d learned she was a local from Connecticut, and was attending architect school, but he hadn’t found out that she was part of the Kirkall family until he had idly searched her name after their second date. After a brief, terrifying few minutes scrolling through the family’s public business holdings, including a sizable stake in a major league baseball team, he’d wondered if he’d ever see her again, or if he was just a passing fancy she was amusing herself with for a few weeks or months before moving on to someone more in her stratum. But that thought was immediately replaced by an even scarier one—that he might already be falling in love with her.

The two opposing thoughts had consumed him until their next date, but he’d managed to contain his fear and desire while stretching his scant budget to the limit to take her out to dinner at Ibiza.

Toward the end of their meal, some of her friends had stopped at their table, and although they were perfectly polite, James sensed the way they were looking at him. Rachel had ignored the pointed looks and narrowed brows, and it was only afterward, when they were sharing a glass of ten-year-old port she’d insisted on buying, that he’d worked up the nerve to ask her the question he knew had been on her girlfriends’ minds.

“Why am I with you?” She had smiled when she heard it, and James felt himself standing at the edge of an unfamiliar precipice, teetering, either about to fall over or step back, depending on her next words.

“First, you know who I am, and you haven’t asked about my father, except once, when you wanted to know what he did for a living. Second, this is our third date, and you still haven’t tried to get into my pants yet—”

That hadn’t been for a lack of desire on James’s part, but he hadn’t dared to even attempt a move like that, not wanting to destroy the romantic illusion he’d been enjoying so far.

“But most importantly, when I look at you, I see a man who hasn’t sold his soul to anyone yet. That’s why I’m with you.”

Soundlessly, James toppled over the edge, falling head-over-heels in love with her in that very moment.

They had been inseparable for the remainder of the school year, with James even winning over a few of her friends, and surviving a nerve-racking holiday weekend at her parents’ palatial mansion upstate, where he’d only gotten lost twice. Her three older brothers had been protective of her and skeptical of him, but James hadn’t given them a single reason to doubt his sincerity toward Rachel. And he’d spoken the truth about her father—he did like the man, whom, he hoped, saw a kindred spirit in James. The elder Kirkall had also built himself up from practically nothing, striking it rich in shrewd foreign investments, then bringing his hundreds of millions back home to reinvest in America’s infrastructure. Barrett had made it clear he wasn’t expecting a handout, that he was just happy to be with Rachel, and fully expected both of them to make their own way, whatever that might be and wherever it might take them. He didn’t know if it had been his directness or his honesty that had made the difference, but when Rachel’s family had invited him along on their Southeast Asia cruise at the end of the term, he’d jumped at it.

But at that precise moment, thoughts of her father, his last year at Yale or anything else for that matter were the furthest thing from his mind. Keeping one hand around her waist, he let his other one creep up toward her breast, cupping it gently, his touch making her tremble and mold her lithe form even closer to him. While they enjoyed each other’s lips again, her hands roamed, as well, slipping underneath his shirt to caress his broad chest, making James even more thankful he’d made the effort to stay in shape over the school year. He managed to set the champagne flute on the railing and curved his arm back around her, moving his fingers down to her finely sculpted rear and squeezing gently.

Rachel broke their kiss with a soft gasp. “Hey now, what do you think my family would say if they came out here and saw you taking liberties like that?”

James didn’t relinquish his hold on her for a moment. “They’d see a man who is head-over-heels in love with you—which just might get my ass kicked, depending on who saw who first.”

“Fortunately for you, the masters of the universe are still backslapping each other belowdecks, leaving us with a few more minutes....” Rachel tilted her head up again, sending an invitation James didn’t hesitate to accept. He leaned down again, his lips about to hungrily devour hers when something on the ocean caught his eye.

“Mmm, what was that?” Despite the glorious distraction right in front of him, Barrett raised his head to try to get a better view of what he’d spotted.

“With me warm and willing in your arms, you pick now to find a dolphin?” Rachel mock-teased him, turning in his arms to look off the starboard bow.

“It wasn’t a dolphin. It looked more like a bunch of driftwood, but with something on top. Hang on a sec.”

James disentangled himself from Rachel’s embrace and walked to the other railing, grabbing a handheld battery-powered searchlight as he approached the rail. Flicking on the million-candlepower light, he swept the incandescent beam back and forth across the water.

“There!” Rachel grabbed his hand and redirected the light. “Is that it?”

“Yeah. Jesus, someone’s out there!” James played the beam over the small mass, which looked like a crude raft cobbled together out of scrapwood and two oil barrels lashed together. What might have been a small pile of rags on top was actually a child’s body, lying motionless on the small platform’s surface. The makeshift float drifted toward them in the calm water, about thirty yards ahead off the right side.

“Holy shit! Call the bridge, have them turn to starboard. I’ll see if I can snag it.” Rachel grabbed an intercom handset from the wall while Barrett snatched a long boat hook from the wall rack and ran to the back of the vessel. Feeling the deck shift slightly underneath him, he realized the captain had turned toward the raft.

As he passed by a door, it opened and a crew member stepped out, followed by Stuart, one of Rachel’s brothers. “Can I be of assistance, sir?”

“Yeah, there’s a kid on a raft to starboard. I’m gonna try to snag him as we pass.” Barrett led the two men to the rear of the boat, where he stepped onto the flat deck used for launching smaller boats or personal watercrafts.

“Would you rather that I take care of this, sir?” The mate was as insistent as he could be under the circumstances, even gently reaching out for the pole with one hand.

James shook his head. “No, I’ve got it, but I’d appreciate some backup just in case it’s heavier than it looks.”

“Careful. You don’t want to take a dip out here, James. Sharks, you know.” Nattily attired in khaki shorts and a pressed tropical shirt, Stuart lounged against the wall, drink in hand, content to let the other two men take the lead.

“Just make sure I don’t go in with it.”

“I’ve got you, sir.” The mate was polite, with a subtle British accent. Barrett tried not to think too much about how he was being supported, with the man’s arm around his waist, but his eyes focused on the raft, now just a few yards away. He reached out with the pole and caught a board, only to have it tear free when he tried to draw the rickety vessel closer, making it rock back and forth.

“Careful, James!” Rachel, her robe wrapped around herself, watched from the walkway.

“I’m trying, dear. Almost...got him...” Barrett stretched out again and wedged his hook into a gap between two boards, hearing the scrape of metal on metal. He pulled the pole in, watching the platform move closer. “Get ready to grab him.”

“Right.” The raft bumped the corner of the luxury yacht, and the steward reached down and plucked the huddled boy, who remained curled in a ball, on board. “I’ve got him.”

“Rachel, get some food and water. He’s probably dehydrated.” James pushed the raft away, sending the rickety pile of wood and barrels spinning into the night.

“I’m on it.” She disappeared into the ship.

“We’ll probably need a blanket, as well—” Barrett’s words were interrupted by the kid, who suddenly unfolded himself and wriggled out of the crew member’s arms. What was even more surprising was the ugly black pistol he pointed at the man, the weapon large in his small hands.

“Chuò! Chuò!”

“What the hell?” Stuart, for all his supposed indolence, took a step forward, only to have the muzzle of the pistol swivel to cover him. He raised his hands, not alarmed enough yet to put his drink down.

“What’s going on?” Barrett didn’t take his eyes off the gun, estimating the distance between him and the boy, who couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven years old. The boat hook was still in his hand, but he was careful not to draw attention to it.

“He told us to stop. He might be a decoy for pirates.”

“Damn, we need to disarm him and warn the others.” Stuart shifted his weight, drawing the boy’s flat stare. At that, Barrett lashed out with the hook, trying to knock the gun aside, or even better, right out of the boy’s hand.

Catching the movement from the corner of his eye, the boy ducked under Barrett’s swipe and swung the gun over toward him, which spit flame as he pulled the trigger. Barrett felt a sudden stab of pain in his abdomen, and looked down to see an expanding spot of dark wetness on his shirt.

“Little bastard...shot me...” Barrett leaned against the railing as the steward leaped forward to grab the pistol, wrenching it out of the boy’s grasp. Distracted, he didn’t notice the shadowy form that came around the corner of the yacht and slipped up behind him.

Barrett tried to shout a warning, but Stuart and the crew member were talking at the same time, calling for the physician. Their shouts for help mixed with the foreign curses and cries of the wriggling boy. The steward’s voice was cut off with a gasp as the shadow came up behind him and wrapped an arm around his throat, doing something that made the man arch his back, his expression a grimacing mask of agony. The other man, a short, wiry Asian dressed in shapeless black pants and shirt, stepped back and let his victim fall to the formerly spotless deck, now dappled with Barrett’s blood. A large knife, its blade dark and gleaming wet, was in his hand.

“Shit!” Stuart hurled his drink into the man’s face, the glass shattering against his cheek and making him drop his blade and clutch his face, screaming in pain. “Come on, buddy!” He grabbed Barrett and hoisted him up, slinging his limp arm over his shoulder.

“Rachel...don’t let them get Rachel...” James found it suddenly hard to think. His free hand, clamped over his wound, was soaked in blood, and he knew if he didn’t get help soon, he would die.

“Let’s just get inside— Son of a bitch!” Stuart’s frantic tone made Barrett look up to see three more of the invaders, machetes and pistols in hand, running toward them from the ship’s bow. Shouts and screams could now be heard from elsewhere on the yacht, along with the thuds of running feet.

“Come on!” The Kirkall brother wrestled with the door, shoving it open and pushing Barrett through. Stepping over him, Stuart pushed the door closed just as a body thumped into it from outside.

“James, help me—I can’t hold this against all of them—”

Barrett, however, couldn’t even help himself, his vision fading to gray as the blood loss started to take its toll on him. He heard a scream from somewhere in the room, then felt footsteps beside him as the door slammed open, Stuart falling over him with a grunt.

The sound of rapid, shouted Chinese filled the room as the hijackers beat Stuart to the floor. Barrett felt himself supported by warm, familiar hands, and looked up to see Rachel’s tear-stained face above him.

“What happened, baby?” She took his hand away from his stomach, stifling a gasp at the growing puddle of blood leaking out of him. “Oh, my God—James, we have to get hel—”

Before she could do anything, her head was jerked backward, and she was dragged away from him by her hair, screaming and grabbing her assailant’s hands. Barrett was left to flop onto the floor, helpless.

“Leave...her alone...” he gasped, trying to muster the strength to crawl after her attacker, but unable to make his arms and legs work. The last sounds he heard were the thuds of fists on flesh and the piercing screams of his girlfriend before darkness overtook him.

CHAPTER ONE

“These chulos better show up tonight. Gettin’ tired of feeling my rear end grow wider sitting all night waitin’ on ’em.”

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, turned from watching the dilapidated warehouse near the docks of the Los Angeles Harbor to shoot a wry look at his partner. “I’m sure they’ll be here soon enough, Cal.” His grin disappeared as he returned to watching the night. “If they want what we’re selling bad enough, they’ll be here.”

The two men were dressed in expensive, casual clothes: silk shirts, linen pants and tasseled Italian loafers. Bolan checked his appearance in the visor-mounted mirror, smoothing his gelled black hair one last time. Ice-blue eyes stared back at him out of a tanned face.

They sat in a silver Cadillac Escalade, its rear shocks compressed from the heavy load in the rear, peering through tinted windows at their eventual destination. Bolan suppressed his smile as he glanced at Calvin James, a member of Phoenix Force, and his partner for this op. “You ready?”

The lanky African-American snorted. “I was born ready. Just make the call. And remember, these fuckers don’t mess around. They sniff pork, we’re both dead men.”

“Well, then, it’s a good thing we don’t mess around, either.” Bolan hit a speed-dial button on his cell phone and lifted it to his ear. “We’re here... Same ride as always... Hell no, we weren’t followed. Yeah, yeah.” He turned to James. “Flash your lights.”

James flicked the headlight switch on and off once, then again while taking one last look around to make sure no one was taking undue interest in what was about to go down.

Next to the warehouse, several large, rusty panel trucks rested in a parking lot, all encircled by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The gate to the lot was closed and secured with a rusty chain. Bolan thought he saw a glint of shiny metal on the chain, but before he could take a second look, the warehouse’s garage door rumbled up, revealing a cavernous, dark interior. A single light flashed on inside, casting a dim glow into the cloudy night.

“Let’s do it.” James put the SUV in gear and rolled forward.

Bolan fixed his partner with a searching gaze. “You followed my advice, right?”

“Yeah, although I still think we’re courting suicide to go in not packing.”

“We’re arms dealers, not users—there’s no reason for us to carry. Besides, the SUV’s armored, so just get to it in case of trouble, remember?”

“Yeah, it’s surviving the short trip in one piece that concerns me.”

“I suggest leaving your door open a crack. That split second to work the handle can make the difference between life and death.”

Now James glanced over at him, meeting Bolan’s calm, steady gaze. “Damn it, I never can tell if you’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

The gleaming SUV pulled up in front of a cluster of eight Latinos, all dressed in variations of the L.A. gangland look: baggy, low-riding jeans, white wife-beater

T-shirts, or flannels with the top button fastened, even in the city’s ninety-five-degree heat, and immaculate ball caps or bandanas tied low, almost covering their eyes. The light from the overhead lamp illuminated only the surrounding area, making Bolan’s threat sense tingle a bit; they had no way of knowing who might be in the darkness, waiting to attack when the time was right.

The garage door descended behind them, cutting off the outside with a slam of metal on concrete. The gang members slowly fanned out in a loose semicircle around the Escalade, no one making a sound.

“Time to get into character.” Slipping on a pair of blue-tinted, wire-rimmed glasses, Bolan took a breath, let it out and popped the door, swinging out and letting his Italian loafers hit the stained warehouse floor with a smack. The still air was redolent of gasoline and oil, making his nose wrinkle. He glanced around, taking in all the members in a quick sweep, and immediately sensing a difference in this gang. Other L.A. street gangs would be more relaxed making a buy on their home turf—smoking blunts, talking shit, posturing, the usual bull. This group was all business. In fact, Bolan was reminded of a pack, each one knowing his place and wholly intent on what he was about to do—whether that be consummate the deal, or beat the shit out of Bolan and James before killing them.

“Hola, amigos!” Bolan casually pushed the door shut, stopping it just short of closing, talking all the while to draw their attention away from what he was doing.

“You guys sure picked an out-of-the-way place— Hey, hey, there’s no need for that.” His protest went unheeded as two of the vatos stepped forward and quickly patted down Bolan and James, paying particular attention to the collars, waistbands, ankles and groins. Bolan glanced at James, his eyebrows narrowing in a silent warning not to make any kind of sarcastic remark.

One of the gang members stepped forward. “Hola, Mr. Sabato. Pleased t’see you kept your end so far.”

“I wouldn’t be much of a salesman if I tried to put one over on my clients now, would I? So what’s with the not-so-warm welcome?”

“None o’yer bus’ness. Let’s see whatcha got.”

“I like a man who gets to the point. Step around here into my office.” Bolan’s cover was a slightly motor-mouthed arms dealer—not his usual mode of operation, but he kept up the pretense as he led the gang leader to the back of the SUV. He hit the remote on his key fob, opening the tailgate to reveal four long olive-green wooden boxes. “Here they are.”

He stood back as the banger motioned two of his men forward to haul one out. As they worked, Bolan and his glasses watched and recorded everything, scanning faces, identifying marks and tattoos. All of the members were inked, and all of them had the same mark on them: MS-13.

Mara Salvatrucha, or MS-13, was the fastest-growing gang on the West Coast, and probably in the United States, as well. Originally started in L.A. in the 1980s to protect newly immigrated El Salvadorans, the gang had grown to encompass about eight thousand members, all Hispanic, and its influence had spread like wildfire from California throughout the rest of the nation. Its members were loyal and utterly ruthless when it came to expanding their territory. While this made it easier for Bolan and his partner to arrange arms stings like this one, they still risked death every time they set one up.

One of the members looked up from the lettering stenciled on the crate. “Hey, man, these ain’t submachine guns. Whatcha pullin’ here, homes?”

“Hold on now, guys. Before you get all uptight, just wait and see what I’ve brought you.” Bolan pulled a small pry bar from the cargo bed and handed it to the leader. “Go on, open it up.”

The banger handed the tool to one of his own and stood back, watching as they opened the crate with a squeal of loosened nails. The cover flew off to reveal six unusual-looking weapons.

“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to the Steyr Army Universal Gun, or AUG P, compact version.” Bolan reached down and pulled one of the futuristic assault rifles from the crate. The gun almost looked unbalanced, with a slot for a 30-round magazine halfway between the shoulder butt and the trigger, which was mounted on a swept-back handle with a large trigger guard that protected all of the fingers on the firing hand. The stock and handle were made out of a single molded piece of drab-green, high-impact fiberglass-reinforced polyamide 66, with a stubby black barrel jutting above a folding handgrip. The weapon looked like something out of a science fiction movie, even though the design had been manufactured since the late 1970s.

Now Bolan had their full attention. Their leader, known only as Araña, or Spider, crossed his arms. The rest of the gang closed ranks around him, hands disappearing into their large pockets, tensing to act on a moment’s notice if necessary. “We’d agreed on two dozen submachine guns. What the hell’s this?”

“These are submachine guns, my friends, and with them I guarantee you will rule the streets.” Bolan reached down to pull a translucent plastic magazine from the box and insert it into the butt. “Cops and SWAT teams are armored against 9 mm, but these guns use 5.56—more than enough to take them out if necessary.”

Araña let his arms drop. “Fool, we ain’t out to start no war with the po-pos. We just wanna protect what’s ours.”

Bolan and James exchanged sidelong glances, and he realized he had inadvertently erred by mentioning killing cops. “Hey, I didn’t say you were going after them, but like you said, you want to protect what is yours, right? These babies fire 700 rounds per minute, and are perfectly balanced to be used with one hand, for drive-and-fire capability if necessary. The built-in scope is set at 300 meters, allowing you to outshoot any enemy you encounter, and lets you control the field of fire.” He held the loaded, but not primed, rifle out to Araña. “Here, feel how light it is.”

The young man accepted the weapon gingerly, grunting in surprise at its weight and stability. His fingers curled around the handle, staying clear of the trigger itself. Bolan stepped forward and pointed out features. “The bolt and ejection port cover can be swapped out to make the gun suitable for left or right-handed shooters, and the safety selector is also accessible from either side of the weapon.”

“You said it can shoot full-auto? Where’s the selector?” the gang leader asked.

Bolan nodded. “Glad you asked. You control the rate of fire by squeezing the trigger. Halfway back is single shot, and pulling the trigger all the way back engages fully automatic fire.”

His presentation brought the other members closer, all of them entranced by the high-tech weapon. “Of course, you could remove that sight to cut its profile down a bit, that’s up to you.”

“And you’re willing to sell these as originally agreed?”

“Not only that, but each weapon comes with four magazines, a muzzle cap, spare bolt for left-handed shooters, cleaning kit, sling and a mountable bayonet, if you have the desire to get up close and personal with your targets. That is, if you have the agreed-upon price, then we’re good to go.”

Araña nodded to one of the other members, who sauntered off into the darkness. Bolan resisted the urge to rock back and forth on his heels as he waited for the transaction to be completed. While he usually didn’t need to abide by the legal necessity of having the money trade hands, it didn’t hurt to make the exchange—it was a better lever to get the gang members to roll on each other later.

The tattooed thug returned with a brand-new duffel bag, which he gave to Araña, who unzipped the top and showed it to Bolan. Inside were well-used bills, all neatly banded. “Fifty thousand, as agreed.”

Bolan reached in for one of the bundles and riffled through it as if assessing the count. “Looks good to me. Your boys can move these other crates, and then we can go our separate ways—”

As if he had mentioned an arranged signal, the garage door began to open, making Bolan look over his shoulder, then at Araña, who stared at him with a frown. Bright spotlights flared into life from the outside, and the silhouetted forms of men appeared in the halogen glow.

“ATF! Everyone put your hands up!” a voice commanded through a bullhorn.

The MS-13 members exploded into action. Half of them took off into the darkness, the others yanked guns out of their waistbands and aimed them at the lights and shadows outside, diving to the floor or taking cover beside the SUV. Cal was nowhere to be seen.

“Chimado!” Araña yanked the cocking lever back and leveled the rifle at Bolan, who was already lunging at him, hands outstretched to grab the weapon before it cut him in two. He shoved the barrel up just before it could be aimed at his chest. Araña maintained enough control not to squeeze the trigger, ignoring the repeated commands to drop his weapon. Instead, he twisted the Austrian assault rifle to the right, nearly breaking Bolan’s grip on it, and shoving him nearer to the SUV.

“Everyone in the building drop your weapons and raise your hands now!” The bullhorn wielder still barked orders as black-fatigue-clad men crouched behind their cars, weapons aimed into the warehouse.

“Are you trying to get us all killed?” Bolan gritted between clenched teeth.

“You set us up—bastard!”

“What? If anything, they followed your sloppy asses here!” Bolan lashed out with his foot, catching the smaller man in the stomach with his heel. His opponent groaned but didn’t relinquish the gun. Screw this, Bolan thought, yanking back on the rifle one last time, then letting it go. The move caught the gangbanger by surprise, and he staggered back against the crates of weapons in the cargo bed of the truck. Bolan ran around the side of the Escalade, sprinting for the cracked-open passenger door.

“Drop your weapons or we will open fire!” the electronically enhanced voice shouted from behind him.

Bolan hooked the door, and yanked it open, only to find a banger already inside, his pistol shoved into James’s face as he screamed at him.

“I said start this motherfucker right now!” The startled vato was cut off in midsentence as Bolan yanked him backward, throwing him to the ground. The man’s pistol discharging as he hit the concrete floor.

The ATF agents didn’t need any more provocation, spraying the SUV and the surrounding area with bullets. Bolan lunged into the passenger seat, shouting, “Close the back! Close the back!” as he ducked, praying that none of the bullets would ricochet around the inside and punch through him like a fist through paper. He heard the punk-punk-punk of small arms rounds impacting on the back and sides of the sport-utility vehicle, and huddled even farther over. Although Bolan had been shot before, he never liked it.

“I’m on it.” James was also hunched in his seat. “So what happened to ‘take cover in here,’ huh?”

“I got delayed.” Bolan’s attention was drawn by the flare of headlights at the other end of the warehouse—large headlights. “You better start it up.”

“What in the hell is that?” James twisted the key as the headlights suddenly grew larger.

“I don’t know, but get us the hell out of its way!” Bolan grabbed for the wheel, twisting it to the right as James jammed on the gas, making the Cadillac leap forward as the oncoming lights grew even more blinding. The approaching vehicle, now recognizable as a huge, industrial tow truck, lurched toward them, striking them a glancing blow that rocked the luxury SUV onto two wheels before it settled back down with a crash of rubber and steel.

James looked back over his shoulder. “They’re not trying to make a break for it, are they?”

Bolan’s attention, however, was focused on the real escape. “Nope, it’s a diversion. Hit your lights.”

James did so, illuminating the back wall, where another door was sliding open enough to let out a low-rider, now crammed full of fleeing MS-13 members. Caught in the high beams, their jaws dropped in shock, then three of them pointed pistols and started shooting as the car angled its way out of the warehouse.

The Phoenix Force veteran tromped on the gas again and the Escalade shot forward, bullets starring its triple-

laminated windshield. Bolan braced himself as they shot out into the fenced yard. The car screamed toward the back of the perimeter, trying to gain enough speed to burst through the chain-link fence.

“Can you stop them before they get out?”

“I’m sure as hell gonna try.” James leaned over the steering wheel, trying to catch up with the retreating gangbangers, or at least get close enough to try to force them to stop. Although the car looked like a glittering piece of pimped-out Detroit trash, it had a kick-ass engine, because the bangers stayed ahead of the powerful SUV as it tore through the fence and into the street beyond. James stayed hard on their rear, bouncing over the curb and struggling to wrestle the massive vehicle back onto the road.

“On an open street, they’re going to leave us in the dust.” Bolan reached behind his seat and pulled out a strange-looking device that resembled a handheld flamethrower, only its nozzle was plugged, ending in a metal grid. “And if they get into traffic, who knows how many people they’ll injure or kill before they’re stopped.”

“Hey, hey! Don’t point that thing at our engine, okay?”

“Relax. Try to get closer to them.” Flipping the power switch on the machine, Bolan lowered his window and stuck his upper body out, holding the device in both hands. The SUV surged underneath him, but the low-rider was slowly pulling away. The soldier would have only one shot before they were out of range. He snugged the weapon into his shoulder, aimed and depressed the triggering button.

The device made no noise, but he felt it vibrate in his hands as it released its invisible energy. Ahead, the gang car’s engine suddenly died, and the vehicle immediately began to slow. The vatos cursed and screamed at the driver, who yelled back at them in frustration.

Bolan leaned back inside and tossed the device into the backseat, pulling his Beretta 93R pistol out from under his seat. “Damn, that thing is handy. Stony Man ought to license it to the cops to stop speeders.”

“Yeah, and it also just fried their cells, so they can’t call for help. Who knew EMP could be so useful.” James had produced his own pistol, a matte-black SIG Sauer P229. “Um, how are we gonna catch all these guys?”

“We’ll have to round them up the old-fashioned way....” Bolan trailed off as he felt a warm circle of metal press into the back of his neck hard, pushing his head forward. He froze, his pistol now a useless lump of plastic and metal.

“All right, cara de mierda, move just an inch and I’ll splatter your brains all over this car. Hand me your gun, slowly, and your friend’s gonna stop by my homies’ car, comprende?”

James had also frozen at hearing Araña’s voice coming from the back of the Escalade. “Where the hell’d he come from?”

Bolan had wondered that exact same thing, but had already come up with the answer. Despite having an assault rifle jammed into his neck, his voice was calm. “Damn, you’re one clever son of a bitch. I thought the federales got you back there. You climbed into the back of our ride, didn’t you?”

“Shut up, pendejo!” The AUG rifle’s muzzle quivered on his skin, and Bolan thought he was about to buy it right there. “I don’t know who you guys are. Real gun dealers would have split like anyone else when the po-pos showed. You guys did me a favor by driving me out of here, but I sure as hell ain’t gonna return it. Now hand over those fucking guns right now—” Bolan felt his head being shoved forward even farther “—you first, then the driver. Slowly.”

Bolan considered trying to flip his pistol and shoot the vato, but the angle was all wrong, and a miss would only result in his quick and painful death. Besides, even if he did hit the gangbanger, the guy might pull the rifle’s trigger by reflex, causing the same undesired

result. He spun the Beretta on his index finger and offered it to the man butt-first. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw James raise an eyebrow in an unspoken question, and he shook his head slightly.

Not yet.

Snatching the pistol, Araña jammed it into Bolan’s neck and set the rifle down. “Since you trashed my boys’ wheels, we’re just gonna take these, and the guns, and the money. Seeing as how you did me a solid by getting me out of there in one piece, if you’re lucky, you might even live to watch us drive away.”

James had pulled over to the side of the empty road, surrounded by small businesses and manufacturing plants that had either gone belly-up or didn’t have a night shift, since their parking lots were all deserted. Bolan expected the ATF boys to come screaming by, or even for a LAPD helicopter to have seen the commotion and investigate, but that didn’t seem to be the case here. It figured, he thought, when a person really wanted the police, they were nowhere to be found.

The rest of the gang had piled out of their dead car, but they couldn’t see what was happening inside the SUV through the smoked windows. Bolan kept his hands loose, waiting for his opportunity.

“Both of you assholes get out, right now!” For the briefest second, the pressure on his neck lessened, and that was when Bolan moved. Wrenching his head and body to the side, he twisted and grabbed the pistol, forcing it to point at the ceiling.

“Goddamn you—!” Araña tried to push the gun down again, but James rammed a short punch into his cheek that made the punk’s head snap to the side hard enough to bounce off the armored window. His grip slackened, and Bolan twisted the pistol out of his hand, then turned so he was facing backward, his chest protected by the Escalade’s bucket seat back. Even stunned, Araña tried to go for the rifle again, but Bolan ended the disagreement by slamming the butt of his pistol into the thug’s forehead twice. With the second blow, his eyes rolled back, and he slumped over on the seat, unconscious.

Through the windshield, Bolan saw the rest of the gangers slowly approach the SUV, many with pistols drawn, but held at their sides. He grabbed the AUG carbine from the back and checked the load, which was still half full. “Huh, he didn’t spray and pray, I’m impressed. All right, let’s take the rest of these bangers down. Ready?”

James had grabbed Bolan’s pistol, tucking the second under his arm as he reached for the door handle. “Let’s do it.”

The two men exited on their respective sides, guns raised, catching the group by surprise. One guy raised his pistol, but Bolan was faster, and snapped off a shot that took the gunman in the chest and sent him to the ground with a strangled gasp, the pistol skittering away on the asphalt. Standing on the running boards, Bolan and James were protected by the armored doors, giving them both a height advantage and almost complete cover.

“Drop the guns or we drop you! Now!” James repeated the order in Spanish as Bolan swept the muzzle of the assault rifle across the group to reinforce his partner. First one, then the others tossed their pistols away.

“All right, everybody grab some ground,” Bolan ordered. “I’m sure you’ve all been to lockup. You know the drill.”

Bolan and James had just collected all of the pistols, patted down each gang member for other weapons and drugs and zip-tied each when three ATF cars roared up, disgorging agents with their pistols out, all shouting for Bolan and James to raise their hands.

The two men let themselves be frisked, only then letting the other agents know that they were working as undercover FBI agents on this sting. “Which,” Bolan added archly, “you boys almost screwed up royally by charging in when you did.”

The other agents weren’t impressed. “Tell your boss to inform other agencies the next time he’s got people working in the city. In fact, forget that, just tell him to keep his fuckin’ nose out of our business. We’ve been tracking this gang for three months, and you think you can just waltz in and snatch them from under our noses? Nice try, jerkoff. We’re taking the collar on these guys, and you Feebies can kiss my ass.”

James and Bolan complained a bit more about the injustice of the situation; after all, it was good for their cover, since they had been assigned to keep moving up this branch of MS-13 to the national leaders. Now, however, they’d simply have to get the interrogation transcripts from the ATF once they were sent back to headquarters. Although they’d busted up this cell of the gang, their mission wasn’t truly complete, not by a long shot. But after this, the two would have to lie low for a while, until they could reintroduce themselves into the underworld and try to find another way into the gang’s hierarchy.

After exchanging a few more choice insults about the relative efficiency of the ATF and FBI, and extracting a promise to return the crate of rifles that had been left at the buy scene, James and Bolan were finally able to get in their SUV and drive off.

Once they were a dozen miles away, Bolan leaned over and checked their prisoner. Araña lay in the backseat, his hands and feet zip-tied and duct tape covering his mouth, his brown eyes burning with hatred.

“Sorry, amigo, but you have an appointment with some different people who are very interested in what you have to tell them. And don’t even try to spew some kind of macho bullshit at me. By the time they’re done with you, you’ll be telling them the names of the people you beat up when you were a punk-ass kid back home in El Salvador.”

James took a corner, leaning back in his seat as the tension of the mission started to wear off. “What do ya think the ATF boys’ll say when they find out the leader is missing?”

“That he was smarter than his goons and rabbited out of there, found a hole in the perimeter and, if he’s smart, is three states away by now. By the time they figure out the truth of it—if they do—he’ll have vanished off the face of the earth.” Bolan reclined his seat and slouched back, pleased at accomplishing their mission and staying in one piece. For now, it was time to relax and enjoy coming out on top again.

“Hey, find us a drive-through on the way to airport. Don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

CHAPTER TWO

Hu Ji Han stood in his elegant office, staring down at the dark, gleaming water of Victoria Harbour that separated Chung Wan, Hong Kong’s central district, and Tsim Sha Tsui, the southernmost point of Kowloon Peninsula on the Chinese mainland. The neon glitter from the skyscrapers all around him reflected off the black seawater, turning what should have been a placid, still stretch into a riot of flashing blues and reds and yellows, signs exhorting those that saw them to buy, consume, spend—live for today in hedonistic, self-indulgent pleasure, with little thought of what the next day might bring.

Fifty-three stories above the ground, ensconced in the Cheung Kong Center, the artfully designed skyscraper built on the grounds of the former Hilton Hotel and Beaconsfield House, Hu stared out at the monuments to capitalism and business surrounding him. He gazed down at the crowded streets of the city that existed like a cancerous growth on an otherwise healthy living being. He lived and worked deep in the pulsing, constantly beating heart of the beast every day, surrounded by its excess, its shallow, tawdry pleasures, the souls of his countrymen adrift in a sea of overindulgent products, drowning in consumption for its own sake. Hu accepted this portion of his fate, living within this cesspool, studying it, surviving it while avoiding being drawn in by its proffered pleasures.

Even after forty years, sometimes he was surprised to find the hate still burning so strongly within him.

To the rest of the world, he was a successful businessman, respected and admired for creating a company that filled a void in the region, that of recovery and restoration after natural disasters. From his small, one-man office twenty-three years ago, the firm of Life and Property Recovery, Incorporated, now had offices all over Southeast Asia and the world, and was branching out into urban development and infrastructure planning and construction. Hu’s cost-effective solutions to humanitarian crises had made him a lauded figure throughout the region. One entire wall of his office was covered with various awards and photos of him being feted and commemorated by various groups and people, including two sitting presidents of the United States. Those meetings had galled him most of all, bowing and smiling at the haughty Americans, all of whom still strutted around as though they were the only superpower in the world, doing what they pleased, heedless of what others thought.

The U.S. companies, many of whom had headquarters in Hong Kong due to the relaxed business environment, were a particular affront to Hu, extending their poisonous influence farther into his country. They were so quick to take advantage of what the city had to offer, yet, when they had been truly needed decades ago, there had been no help forthcoming, not from them, nor from anywhere else in the world. It was this terrible failure on their part, and that of other countries, that kept Hu’s constant desire burning deep in his heart, carefully concealed by layers of politeness, business acumen and genial diplomacy. But always, always, there was the voice in the back of his mind, constantly exhorting him. His grandmother had selected his middle name, Ji, meaning to remember or keep in mind, and that was exactly what he had done all these long years.

Never forget...never forgive...

Throughout his years growing up, all through building his business over the decades, Hu had never forgotten. And now, with the first part of his plan set in motion, he was only a few days away from sending a truly divine wind down upon the complacent fools and fatuous men and women that wasted their lives in meaningless busywork—soon...it would all fall into place.

The soft whoosh of the doors to his private elevator broke through Hu’s reverie.

His personal secretary, Zheng Rong, walked to his side. Dressed in a tailored navy blue pinstripe business suit jacket and trousers, she had served him faithfully for the past five years without hesitation. Stopping three feet away, she bowed, a gesture he returned with respect, although he didn’t turn from his contemplation of the harbor.

“Stage one is complete, sir. The decoy vessel is under our control.”

“Were there any casualties?”

There was the barest pause before her reply made his head swivel in her direction. “Regrettably, yes. The men tasked to take the ship were overzealous during the assault. One man was killed, two wounded, and a woman was violated before she and the others were set adrift as originally ordered.”

Hu clucked his tongue. “Have the perpetrators been identified?”

“Yes. The death came at the hands of a young boy, who was used as a distraction. I have questioned him myself, and believe him when he says it was an accident. As for the other, he is downstairs, should you wish to speak with him yourself.”

Hu considered the offer, then turned to face her. “Take me to him. I would see this animal before he is removed from this earth.” Only the slight tremor in his voice betrayed his anger.

Zheng turned and led him back to the elevator, which was just large enough to hold both of them comfortably. The ride down was noiseless, descending into the sublevels below the building, where Hu had paid a princely sum in order to have a private garage with twenty-four-hour street access. For a man in his position, the ability to come and go unnoticed was more important than many would think.

At this time of night, there was only one vehicle in the private lot, a slate-gray Range Rover that barely rocked back and forth on its springs as the prisoner inside struggled to escape. From where he stood, Hu could barely hear the muffled thuds as the captive man slammed against the interior.

“My apologies, sir, he awoke sooner than expected.”

“No, that is all right. I would look into his eyes before you remove him.” Hu led the way, walking forward with a bare whisper of his virgin-wool trousers. He paused at the back door of the luxury SUV, waiting for Zheng to open it.

When the door rose, the man inside froze, caught in the act of hammering his bare feet against the back window glass. Gagged and bound hand and foot, he had worked himself into a sweat, the foul odor making Hu’s nose wrinkle.

“This will be cleaned once the cargo is removed.”

The man tried to catch Hu’s eyes with his own panicked ones, their normal almond shape distended by fear into wide, white ovals, marred by a swelling bruise under one. His split and puffy lips writhed as he tried to speak around the gag, the muffled pleas reduced to guttural grunts and cries.

“I would have rewarded you handsomely, enough to care for your entire family for years. Yet you let your base desires get the best of you during this first, critical operation.” Hu leaned close to the man’s blanched face. “And if I cannot trust you to carry out your orders on this simple task, then I cannot employ you any longer. But since you know too much about what I have planned for this city and the rest of the world, I regret to inform you that your termination must be permanent.”

Hearing his doom, the captive man lashed out with his head, trying to butt Hu in the face. A blurred form rushed in and slammed the man into the backs of the third-row seats. Zheng retreated just as quickly, her open palm out, ready to defend or attack as needed.

Hu shook his head sadly. Now, when he had spent so long preparing to put his plan into motion, he couldn’t afford any action—by himself or others—that would endanger the operation he had been planning for half his life. “It is foolish actions such as this that can

endanger everything we have worked for. Have him

removed as an example to the others that this sort of base behavior will not be tolerated. I trust you will come up with a suitable message for them.”

Zheng smiled, her expression devoid of any humor or warmth. “Yes, sir. I have just the right lesson planned. They won’t forget it, and he certainly won’t miss what I will use to drive the point home.” She closed the door on the gasping, crying man, his last mumbled pleas for what Hu assumed were mercy falling on deaf ears.

“Make sure he is never found.”

“Of course, sir.”

“When will we be ready to begin the second phase?”

“Once the lesson has been delivered, then it is a matter of locating the right vessels to commandeer. The men will need some time aboard to set the devices to ensure their proper destruction.”

“Very good, you will keep me informed as to their progress. Also, is the diversionary force ready to go on my orders?”

“Yes, sir, their fee to the event has been handled through one of our shell corporations. There is nothing tying it back to us. They are encamped in the desert thirty kilometers south of Tiznit, and are awaiting the word to move out.”

“Excellent. Please inform my pilot that his services will not be needed. I’ll be resting here tonight. I will see you in the morning.”

Zheng bowed again. “As you wish.” She went to the driver’s side of the SUV while Hu walked back to the elevator to return to his office—and the continued contemplation of the pit that was Hong Kong around him, and how best to cleanse it and the others complicit in a betrayal that stretched back more than half a century.

CHAPTER THREE

Eight hours later, Bolan, James and their prize were at Stony Man Farm, in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Jack Grimaldi had flown them out of John Wayne Airport on a red-eye back east, resulting in them enjoying a cup of real coffee—not Kurtzman’s superstrong black swill—and watching the sun come up over the fog-shrouded peaks.

Bolan had decided to spirit Araña back to Stony Man Farm to avoid any federal entanglements. The Executioner and James decided to check out leads the cyberteam had before they began questioning their informant. The two men heard a whoop just as they walked into the computer room in the Annex.

“What do ya think that’s about?” Calvin James asked.

“Akira either found the latest bootleg he’d been looking for, or he’s actually on to something. Only one way to find out.”

Akira Tokaido was one of Stony Man’s youngest members. He was also its best computer hacker, slipping in and out of foreign government mainframes, through criminal syndicate firewalls and anywhere else intel was needed from cyberspace.

But when Bolan and James walked to Tokaido’s workstation, his clenched fists weren’t raised in triumph at his latest sneak-and-peek, nor was he crowing about his success to anyone within earshot. Instead, his dark brown eyes were glued to a large monitor, his fingers blurred over the keyboard.

“Heard you hollerin’ in the hallway. What’s up?” James asked.

Tokaido didn’t take his eyes off the screen as he replied. “Shouted too soon. It’s probably just a false alarm. For a second, I thought I’d found a link to the Sale in the Sands.”

The name got both Bolan’s and James’s attention right away. Throughout the world, there were certain black-market events that Stony Man was constantly on the lookout for. The “Sale in the Sands” was one of them—a huge assembly of black-market weapon dealers that got together every other year to sell weapons, espionage technology, engineering and systems knowledge and entire mercenary groups to the right bidder. It had been on Bolan’s list to check out for some time, but either other more pressing ops had come up at the same time, or the Farm had followed artfully disguised trails that had led them nowhere.

“Why do you think it’s a no-go?” Bolan asked as he leaned down to survey the screen.

Tokaido leaned back and interlaced his hands behind his head. “Because, how would a low-life L.A. gangbanger get access to the triple-encrypted website that allows potential attendees access and the chance to put down their fifty-thousand-dollar advance reservation fee?”

“Fifty grand?” James whistled. “Damn, that’s one exclusive club.”

“That’s not the half of it, brother.” Tokaido tapped more keys. “From what I can tell, that’s only half of what someone needs to pony up to attend this little party.”

“Wait a sec—you’re telling me Araña had access to the site, that he was in, for all intents and purposes?” Bolan asked.

“Near as I can tell, yes. I’ve been tracking down every bit of conversation he’s had regarding this, and from what I’ve gathered, MS-13 was planning to attend. They’d put down their money, and were awaiting confirmation of their account being created, as well as the second part of the password to wire the second half.”

Bolan and James exchanged glances. “In for fifty grand, in for a hundred,” the lithe black man said.

“Akira, I assume you can masquerade as Araña and finish the transaction?”

“Well, I had already begun setting up a slave system on his smartphone to see just how far down the rabbit hole I could go. I was just waiting for authorization—”

“Which you just got.” Bolan straightened as his own cell phone buzzed. “Stay on this, and gather as much intel as possible. Cal, notify Phoenix to be on standby. If it’s going down in the next few days, we may have to scramble to get wherever it is on time.” He flipped his cell open. “Yeah.”

“It’s Hal.” Bolan’s long-time colleague and friend usually sounded either disgruntled, disgusted or dyspeptic, but this time his voice carried none of those overtones. Rather, Hal Brognola’s voice carried an undercurrent Bolan had hardly ever heard—nervousness.

“Are you all right?” Bolan asked.

“Yeah, everything in Foggy Bottom is as per usual—gridlocked and logjammed. Striker, I have a favor to ask you. How soon can you get to JFK?”

“Jack’s sacked out, but Charlie’s available. What’s this about?”

“I can’t talk about it like this, even over a secure line. Just get there as soon as you can, and call me. I’ll direct you the rest of the way once you’ve landed in New York City.”

“Hal—” Bolan turned away from the other men and lowered his voice “—you’re all right?”

“Yeah, this has to do with the circles I run in. Just get up here, would you? It would mean a lot to me.”

“I’m on my way.” Bolan hung up and speed-dialed Charlie Mott, Stony Man’s second pilot. “Charlie...yeah, it’s me...prep the jet for a flight to JFK...leaving in the next hour...thanks.”

James was watching him as he headed for the door. “What’s up?”

“Hal needs me in NYC. I want you to take over Araña’s

interrogation. Find out everything he knows about the Sale in the Sands, and anything else MS-13’s up to. I’ll call in once I’m in New York.”

“You got it.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Xiang Po bolted upright in the bed, the soft cotton sheets puddling around his body as he choked off his shout of fear. Heart hammering in his chest, he looked in every corner of the small stateroom, searching for the furious, black-haired ghost that had been crawling after him, its bloody hands reaching for him from beyond the grave....

A dream—it was only a dream, he thought. He cocked an ear, listening for any sign that his outburst might have been heard by the other pirates. When no fist hammered on the door, he leaned back against the plush headboard and sighed in relief. He stared at the opulent room he’d been given as a reward for his part in taking over the yacht, taking in the soft carpet, the real wooden furniture, the faint smell of some kind of floral fragrance that had filled the room when he had first entered. All of this, as well as a wonder he had scarcely believed when he had first set eyes on it.

Just thinking about it made him shiver in anticipation. Xiang slipped out of bed, carefully drawing up the covers again—it would be a crime to leave such a luxurious abode unkempt. He grinned as he thought about the first night they had stayed aboard, when he had tossed and turned on the soft mattress, unused to such comfort, until he had wrapped himself in the topsheet and slept on the floor, which had still been more comfortable than any other bed he’d ever been in. Over the next few days, he had moved to the bed, and his rest had never been so peaceful—except for the damn dreams.

He crossed to the private bathroom, marveling again at how his bare, callused feet sank into the soft, ivory-colored carpet. Sliding open the narrow door, he gazed at the object of his desire—the small, tiled shower stall. When Xiang had first found it, he had stayed under the fresh, clean spray for fifteen minutes, using up almost all of the water on the boat. The other pirates had wanted to beat him for his mistake, but their leader, Lee Ming, had instead made him responsible for maintaining the desalinization system for the yacht as long as they were on board, which he had done scrupulously ever since. Xiang had overheard a conversation between Lee and another pirate, and learned that they might remain onboard for as long as a week, maybe ten days. It wasn’t their normal operating procedure, but was to be followed until the next phase of their plan was to be put into motion. He didn’t mind; this was the best he’d ever had it in all of his twelve years.

At least he thought he was about twelve years old; the truth was, he had no idea of his birthday, or where he had been born, or who his parents were. The pirate life was all he’d ever known, and he did what he had to do to survive among this band of criminals.

In the shower, he had just gotten the water adjusted to his comfort when a heavy fist pounded on the door. “Xiang! Where’s breakfast?” a familiar voice demanded in guttural Cantonese.

“Shit!” The boy turned the water off and grabbed the nearest towel, wiping himself down and leaping for his clothes. Scrambling into them, he reached for the door just as the fist hammered on it again, making the entire frame shake.

“Coming!” He slid the door open to see the leering face of Guong Ho staring down at him, making Xiang’s buttocks clench involuntarily. “I’d better get up there, otherwise the others will be mad at me, too.” He tried to slip by the stocky, muscular man, but was stopped by a thick arm blocking his way.

“Why the rush, Po?” The man’s stubby fingers combed through the boy’s wet hair. “You look so much better cleaned up.”

Xiang ducked under his arm. “You asked where breakfast was. I need to get to the galley to make it.”

The large man hip-checked him into the wall with surprising agility. His thick fingers grabbed Xiang’s neck as he leaned close to the boy. “You’d better get back into that bed if you know what’s good for you—”

“Po? Ho? What’s going on down there? Where’s our meal?” A strong voice carried down the hallway. Guong immediately straightened and shoved Xiang ahead of him.

“I’m rousting this lazybones right now. Get moving, you!” His hand thudded between Xiang’s shoulder blades, staggering the boy and almost sending him to the marble floor. “This isn’t over, little one,” he hissed under his breath as he followed Xiang to the galley entrance.

“Easy, Ho, you don’t want to injure our cook. Let’s go, Po, everyone is hungry and waiting.” Although their leader’s voice was pleasant enough, his face was all hard, lean planes, with a hooked beak of a nose under glittering black eyes. Xiang knew firsthand that his tone was the only soft thing about him. Lee Ming had killed their previous leader a year ago, and since then had mercilessly trained the small band of pirates to take on larger ships and cargo. He was the one who had come up with the decoy idea, which had worked perfectly for several hijackings—at least, until this last time.

Xiang slid past the pirate leader, shoulders tensed in expectation of a blow, but the man let him pass without interference. Once immaculate and gleaming, the kitchen and its appliances were filthy from the rest of the men coming and going at all hours of the day, leaving rotting food scraps and dirty dishes and bowls everywhere in their wake. The fetid smell made him gag, and he opened the small porthole window to get some fresh air in, then turned on the oven fan to try to clear the stench. With a sigh, Xiang realized he’d let things go unattended here for too long. He’d have to clean the whole area from top to bottom, before it could get any worse.

He checked the walk-in refrigerator, which contained supplies for twice the number of people currently on board, and grabbed a dozen and a half eggs, four pounds of peeled shrimp, crisp bean sprouts, fish sauce and everything else he needed for a giant batch of spicy egg foo yung with shrimp, a quick yet filling meal that would satisfy the chorus of growling stomachs outside.

For the next ten minutes, Xiang lost himself in the ritual of cooking, one of the few things he truly enjoyed, having picked it up from the last leader of their group. The soothing cadence of cracking, chopping and whisking was almost able to distract him from the shocked look of wide-eyed pain on the American’s face when the bullet had hit him, the man’s face still haunting his sleep. Soon the savory smell of cooking egg and shrimp filled the galley, overlying the stink of spoiled food. Xiang also heated plenty of water for tea, finding the last of the leaves in a container underneath the small galley table.

When it was finished, Xiang scooped them into two large bowls—the last clean ones he could find, and reheated the last of the scallion pancakes he’d made the previous night, which had somehow escaped the ravenous men’s notice. Piling everything on a large tray, along with bowls, cups and chopsticks, he carefully carried it out to the rear sundeck, where the men had gathered to eat. The tray was so heavy it made his arms shake, but Xiang didn’t complain or stop moving for a moment, knowing that his only option was to make it to the table with his burden intact.

He emerged from the hallway into a bright morning, with a canopy covering the rear area to ward off the already blazing sun. Out here, the smell of the savory breakfast was overpowered by the salt tang of the ocean. Xiang didn’t look around, but kept his eyes on his goal—the table. He was only concerned once, when Guong Ho feinted as if he was going to rise and come after him. His movement was noticed by Lee, who frowned.

“Don’t make the boy drop our breakfast, Ho, otherwise we’ll have to make you cook, and everyone knows what a lousy chef you are!”

The rest of the pirates roared with laughter while Guong hunkered down in his chair, flushed and glowering. Xiang set the platter down, and the men swarmed over the food like starving sharks, scooping out large portions with their bowls and eating with the chopsticks, or just their fingers. After glaring at Xiang with a dark stare that promised revenge for the perceived insult, Guong Ho dug in, as well.

Xiang stood away from the table, waiting for the men to finish. He noticed that almost all of them had raided the closets of the former occupants. Since the clothes were American, they had been modified, with khaki and linen pant legs rolled up, and many sleeves shortened by a knife blade. Only Lee Ming wore clothes that could even be considered appropriate, having modified the captain’s uniform to fit his slender frame. Xiang frowned. The makeshift outfits could fool a passing ship, but anyone coming onboard would see through the poor disguises in an instant. Normally they sold a ship after stripping it of anything valuable in a few days, but since they were staying this time, the danger increased with every day they remained onboard. Xiang knew he couldn’t say anything about it, since Lee would take that as an affront to his leadership. He’d just have to be vigilant about having an escape route open in case they were caught.

The men had just about finished their breakfasts, leaning back and belching in satisfaction, exchanging smiles and jibes about how much each other had eaten. Xiang waited for Lee to finish, knowing the harsh penalty for attempting to clear the table before their leader was done, when one of the men assigned to monitor the radio walked out of the communications room.

“The demon woman has contacted us—she is coming in for a meeting.”

Xiang was secretly pleased at seeing Lee stiffen slightly upon hearing the message. So, there were people even he feared, the boy thought. It was easy to see why, however. A visit from the demon woman was always fraught with peril. The last time, she’d taken Lee aside for a whispered conversation, then he had pointed out Gouhou Cheng and Xiang. She had sternly interrogated Xiang about the events during the hijacking and he’d done his best to assure her that his shooting the man had been an accident. But she had taken Gouhou away with her. That had been two days ago, and they hadn’t heard anything about or from him since.

Lee let his chopsticks clatter on the table. “When?”

“She will be here in ten minutes. She said all of us should be here on the deck when she arrives.”

“That stuck-up bitch.” Lee’s nostrils flared, and Xiang knew his anger had just risen another notch. Their leader hated kowtowing to the woman, but he swallowed his pride and followed her orders so that the pirates could earn the promised reward for all of this work, a prize far beyond stealing ships, even ones such as this. Xiang had no idea what was necessary to obtain it, but Lee, in one of his rare, expansive moods after drinking a half-bottle of wine one evening, had hinted that it would be enough to let them quit the pirate life forever, to enable them to live like normal people for a change. That was why he’d pushed the men so hard to do their assigned jobs well, so that no one would imperil their chance to leave this life behind.

“Xiang! Clear this mess away. The rest of you, go clean yourselves up. We must look presentable when she arrives.”

The boy jumped to obey, stacking the bowls and loading them onto the tray. Picking it up, he carried his pile into the galley, stacking them in the sink and filling it with hot water to soak them. He took a quick look at himself in the mirror, patting his hair down with water, then scurried back on deck, making sure to stay as close to Lee Ming and as far from Guong Ho as possible.

The rumbling throb of a powerboat could now be heard reverberating over the calm ocean, and Xiang looked off the port side to see a slim, forty-five-foot-long cigarette boat approaching, cutting through the water like a sleek, silver-gray dolphin. It turned sharply toward the yacht, powering down as it closed in. Lee Ming nodded for two men to meet the powerboat. A few minutes later, the demon woman stepped aboard.

Xiang, along with the rest of the men, shifted uneasily in her presence. She was impeccably dressed in a western-style suit, with a cream silk blouse under matching dark pinstriped blazer and pants. Despite the heat, she didn’t sweat, and her hair was restrained in what looked like an ivory holder and draped her left shoulder. She carried a small, alligator-skin briefcase in her right hand. Her eyes were concealed behind dark blue designer sunglasses that lent her face an alien, insectile quality. Whenever he saw her, a strange mixture of feelings cascaded over Xiang: fear and anger and another emotion that he couldn’t quite identify.

Setting the briefcase down on the table with a thump, she didn’t waste time with greetings. “Why haven’t you repainted the boat? It has been three days since you took it, yet it still looks the same.”

Lee Ming concealed his anger under a calm, lazy affectation. “It is difficult to do such work when we are being interrupted by pointless meetings with you all the time.”

She smiled, her white teeth flashing in a vulpine grin. “This meeting is anything but pointless, asshole. I have your next assignment, but first, an object lesson for you and the rest of these dirty pigs.”

Now she had all of the men’s attention. Of course, calling Ming an asshole and the rest of them dirty pigs would do that, Xiang thought. One or two of them tensed, as if they were going to try to jump her, but Lee froze them in place with just a look. He returned his attention to the woman, who stood by the table like a statue, watching them all from behind her dark sunglasses.

“Please, continue.” One could almost miss the gritted strain in his voice, he covered it well.

“In here is money for resupplying the boat, as well as getting the damn thing painted. It had better be done in the next two days, or we’ll find another crew to handle this operation. And if you doubt my word—”

She popped open the locks on the briefcase, opened it and took out a small lacquered box inlaid with gold filigree. “I brought you a gift from my superior.” She set it on the table in front of Lee. “Open it.”

Even Xiang knew that opening a gift immediately after receiving it was bad form, but since it was more of an order than a request, Lee didn’t have a choice. He reached out and undid the tiny metal clasp with one hand, then flipped the cover open. The men behind him gasped in surprise, but Lee showed no hint of any reaction at all.

Xiang carefully sidled closer to the table, overcome with curiosity. He had just gotten a glimpse of something that looked sort of like a dried fleshy finger when Lee slammed the cover shut, his fingers curling into a fist over the box.

The woman continued as if she didn’t notice his boiling rage. “We dropped off the rest of him on the way here. I imagine the sharks dined well. My superior was very displeased with his actions when you took over this boat. He trusts there will be no further incidents like the one that cost Cheng his life.”

Xiang, like many of the other pirates, gaped at her in shock. The woman had overseen one of the most grievous insults to a Chinese person by denying him a proper burial. But instead of acting ashamed, she stood tall and proud, as if pleased by what she had carried out. Xiang hadn’t been overly fond of Cheng, as he was a drunkard and a bully, but even he wouldn’t have considered the thought of doing something that heinous to the man’s body.

The woman stood over Lee, as if daring him to reply. The silence stretched out for many seconds. Finally, the pirate leader looked up. “We shall do everything you require. There will be no further...incidents.”

“Good. You will also need to recruit more men. My superior has decided that we will be taking two vessels for the mission, not just one.”

The shock of the “gift” was replaced by the surprise of this new directive. Even Lee’s eyebrows raised at this. “Taking over one ship was going to be difficult enough, but two—”

“I did not ask for your opinion, I told you what you must do. If this is a problem, then I can find other men willing to undertake this mission, rendering all of you—” her gaze, even through the sunglasses, raked across everyone “—as expendable as that pig there.” She waved a hand at the box. “Get this boat repainted, get more men, preferably some with large ship experience, and be ready to move in two days. We will contact you with further instructions then.”

Lee swallowed, his fisted hands having disappeared under the table. “Everything will be ready as you have requested.” His voice had gone low and very soft. The pirates edged away from him; they knew exactly what that tone meant. Xiang slowly crept back to his place near the hallway entrance; when the time came, he wanted to have his bolt hole close at hand.

“Good. And no more fuck-ups, or you’ll all join your friend as shark bait. Well, except for some parts, perhaps.” She grinned again, turned on her heel and descended back to the boat. With a muffled roar, the powerboat pushed off, then turned and disappeared into the distance, shrinking until it could no longer be seen, and its engine noise was nothing but a loud memory.

Lee sat at the table for a long minute, then took the box and hurled it overboard, contents and all. “I swear, we will complete our job, but before we do, that bitch will be dead.”

He rose with such force that his chair toppled over, skidding on the hardwood deck. “Let’s move, all of you! Get underway, head for the island! We’ll show them just how we get things done!”

He stalked into the main room as the rest of the men scrambled to obey his orders. Xiang ducked into the hallway to the galley and began cleaning the pots, wondering just how much harder their plan was going to be now.

And what exactly did the demon woman mean by two ships?

CHAPTER FIVE

Three and a half hours later, Bolan turned his rented Escalade off the Henry Hudson Parkway onto a forested road, leaving the whoosh and roar of the highway behind as he traveled into a secluded forest park.

He looked out the window at the well-kept lawns and stark trees just beginning to bud in the spring season. He hit his earpiece, speed-dialing Stony Man Farm as a building straight out the Middle Ages came into view, complete with a stone tower rising over the foliage. After the call was routed through a series of cutouts, an operator at the Farm put him through to Tokaido.

“Speak to me.”

“This is Striker. What am I coming up on?” After getting the address from Brognola, Bolan had sent it to Akira Tokaido to gather info during the hour-long drive from JFK to Long Island.

“Hey, Striker. You just entered Fort Tryon Park. That would make the building you’re coming up on part of the Cloisters.” Bolan heard keys tapping. “It’s a part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, is dedicated to the art and architecture of Medieval Europe, and was opened in 1938 to the public—”

“I’m familiar with New York landmarks, so that’s enough of a history lesson, thanks.” Bolan watched the red tile-roofed building grow larger as he approached. “Wonder why Hal suggested this place, instead of any one of a dozen in D.C. that would be as discreet?”

“Offhand, it seems to be about as far from both NYC and D.C. as you could get. Since it’s so isolated, anyone trying to follow either of you would stick out like the proverbial sore thumb.”

“Right.” Bolan had known Hal Brognola far too long to suspect the man of trying to lure him into some kind of trap, but that didn’t mean there weren’t others who wouldn’t attempt the same using Hal as bait. “I’ll check in with you afterward.”

“I’ve downloaded a site map to your phone. You sure you don’t want eyes in the sky or ears on the ground?” Tokaido asked.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll be fine. Striker out.” Disconnecting his call as he pulled into an empty space on the graveled parking lot, Bolan took a few seconds to scan and memorize the grounds plan Tokaido had sent him, as well as look around, his trained mind evaluating entrances, exits, hard points, cover. He also took a moment to check his casual rig. His Beretta 93R was nestled in a Galco belt holster at the small of his back, easily concealed by his camel-colored sport coat. Keeping the pistol hidden from casual view, he drew it, checked the load and replaced it before shrugging into his jacket.

He strolled up the driveway to the diamond-shaped main hall, dropping a twenty-dollar donation to the organization that maintained the building. Exits at each point led to a medieval book collection on his right, into what was termed the Romanesque Hall straight ahead, and to the Late Gothic Hall on his left, which led to the garden.

Bolan walked into the larger hallway to his left, not sparing a single glance at the rich collection of artwork adorning the walls. Stepping out into the garden bathed him in the golden light of the late-morning sun, which washed the nearby wall and ground in its warm, glowing radiance.

The garden grounds were arranged in a traditional style, with the large rectangle formed by the walls divided by framed footpaths into four equal areas, each filled with a profusion of plants and color that created a heady mix of floral scents. In the center of the garden, a stone fountain burbled, and next to it, staring into its trickling waters as intently as if he was trying to divine the future, stood Hal Brognola.

Bolan walked to him slowly, his boots making enough noise on the gravel to alert the other man. He took in the big Fed’s appearance as he approached. Normally comfortably attired, if a little rumpled, he now looked as if he had been traveling for the past day or so and hadn’t gotten much sleep. His hands were in the pockets of his slacks, but Bolan couldn’t tell if he was holding something in one or both of them, or just clenching his fists.

He was a yard away when Brognola spoke. “Hi, Striker.” His usually warm, reassuring voice was thin and reedy, more evidence of the stress he was under.

“Hal.” Bolan strode to his side and looked into the bottom of the fountain. The face staring back at him, even distorted by the rippling water, made him pause. His oldest friend’s features were ashen-gray, with red-rimmed eyes surrounded by puffy skin, attesting to his lack of sleep. His graying hair, usually neatly combed, ruffled in the light breeze.

“Hal, are you all right?”

Brognola nodded, holding up a forestalling hand. “I’m fine. It’s just been a very busy past twenty-four hours, that’s all.” He rubbed his tired face with his hands. “Finally I just had to get away for a little bit—but of course, the business at hand always intervenes. That’s why you’re here.”

Bolan had a far less philosophical view of his endless war. It always came down to him versus the evil in the rest of the world. Usually Brognola was right there alongside him, fighting the good fight. To see him shaken this way was anything but normal. Bolan tried to snap him out of it by getting right to the point. “What’s this all about?”

Brognola took a deep breath and raised his head, staring into Bolan’s ice-blue eyes with his own rheumy ones. “In the course of my work in D.C., I’ve gotten to know people throughout the city. One family in particular—the Kirkalls.”

Bolan’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “The manufacturing Kirkalls? That’s quite a connection to keep out of sight, particularly on the Hill.” The soldier kept up on the movers and shakers in D.C., and also recognized the surname as a former director of the CIA about ten years ago. “I assume Morgan is part of the family, as well?”

“Of course. Despite our proximity to projects on both sides of the political fence, our families have always been friendly. Morgan’s granddaughter, Rachel...” As soon as he said her name, Brognola gritted his teeth, forcing his next words out. “Those heartless bastards.”

“What happened?”

“It’s a short story. After the spring term, Morgan’s son, Robert, took his family on an around-the-world cruise, a reward for everyone for their accomplishments during the semester. Apparently they had just left the Philippines when their boat was attacked by pirates. According to Robert, they were after the yacht, which will fetch several hundred thousand on the black market. But during the hijacking, Rachel’s boyfriend was shot and died of blood loss soon after. Their bodyguards were subdued, and Rachel was raped by one of the pirates. More than once, that’s all anyone will tell me. Afterward, they put everyone, family and the crew, into one of the speedboats and set them adrift after disabling the engine. They were out there for a day before a Japanese freighter found them and brought them to Singapore. As soon as he found out, Morgan sent his private jet to bring them all home.

“When I found out, I went to the hospital right away. But when I first saw Rachel in that hospital bed, I realized there was nothing I could do. I’ve known Robert for most of his life, but I’d never seen him cry out of sheer helplessness until I saw him that morning.” He rubbed his stubbled chin. “I got as much information out of him as I could, under the circumstances. Assuming that the pirates haven’t ditched the boat already, they’ve probably already modified it, replaced the transmitter and are hiding somewhere in the thousands of square miles of ocean in that area, perhaps in one of the hundreds of islands throughout the region.”

He stared at the wall across the garden, as if seeing a place somewhere beyond the garden, beyond the city. “Rachel once was an intern on the Hill. She’s so different from the girl I knew even a month ago. I know she’ll recover from this—she’s strong, like the rest of her family. But she’ll never be the same again. As I was leaving, I saw Morgan—he asked...no, he begged me to do what I could to find those responsible for this. He can’t possibly be involved in any way. If it were found out, the repercussions would destroy his reputation and damage the family’s. I told him that I would do what I could, and then set up the meeting here, with you.

“I could use my Agency contacts. I know a few people who could get the job done. But I don’t want to drag them into this. Last I knew, they were stretched pretty thinly across the region, and sending one off on a personal vendetta, even for me, seems pretty high-handed.”

“But you wouldn’t hesitate to request a favor from a friend in a position to do so, would you?” Bolan said without a hint of rancor. He knew what it was like to lose people, to see them hurt in the line of duty. To see them dead for just trying to do the right thing. A terrible crime had been inflicted on this young woman, which would no doubt haunt her for the rest of her life.

Brognola turned back to him. “We go back a long way, Striker. I know I have no right to ask this of you—and I certainly don’t want you going to any special lengths on my account, or for some former CIA director—but if you have a mission that comes up in that area in the near future, I’d appreciate it if you or one of the others would keep an eye out for the ship or any of the men. Robert’s taking his own steps to find them—

he wouldn’t say how, despite my best efforts to find out—so anyone you send may find some competition there.” He held out a flash drive. “Here’s everything I could get—facial sketches of the pirates, the specifications on the yacht, all of it. I hope it can help in some small way.”

Bolan took the small drive and pocketed it. “I can’t promise Morgan or you anything, Hal, but I’ll see what I can do for you, even if that means just locating these people so you can pass the intel on to Robert.”

“Thanks, Striker.”

A cloud had blocked the sun, casting shadows over the garden, stealing the warmth away from the area. “Are you fixed for getting back to Washington?”

“Yeah, my car’s in the lot.” A wry smile quirked the big Fed’s lips. “Don’t worry. I’m a bit somber these days, but I still remember to know not to leave the area together.”

Bolan smiled as they left the garden, heading back into the Late Gothic Hall, where he shook Brognola’s hand before heading back to his SUV. He pulled out of the parking lot, merging with the freeway traffic back into the city. After five minutes of travel, Bolan plugged the USB drive into an adapter on his cell and hit the hands-free function, speed-dialing a number that would connect him to the Farm.

“Speak to me.”

“This is Striker.”

“How’s Hal?”

“All right.” Bolan filled Tokaido in on the general parameters of the task, leaving names out of it. “I’ll square it with Aaron. You’re my man till we see this through. I’m sending you files on the ship and the perpetrators. Start isolating general traffic in the area, satellite passes, law enforcement bulletins, whatever you can find.” “Aaron” was Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, head of the Farm’s cyberteam.

“Okay. You do realize that this’ll be like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack?”

“More like one ship out of a few thousand, but I’m sure you’re the guy to do it. Any word from Calvin on our subject?”

“He’s in the middle of the session now, using that new scopolamine derivative he stumbled across. Probably have a report ready for you by the time you get back.”

“And how’s your infiltration coming?”

Bolan heard a deep breath on the other end of the line. “As far as I know, we’re in. I just got the code of the account to wire the other half of the money. The event starts in four days.”

“Good work, Akira. Ask Aaron to contact Charlie and have him prep the jet. I want to be wheels-up as soon as I hit the airport.”

“You got it.”

“Striker out.”

With the balls in motion, Bolan disconnected, his mind turned to the logistics of such a personal mission, and how to execute it against the framework of a larger one.

CHAPTER SIX

Ninety minutes later, Bolan leaned back in his white leather chair of the Gulfstream G650 that Brognola had arranged to ferry him to New York City and back, grimacing in frustration.

Although there were plenty of crimes going on in the South China Sea—smuggling of drugs, knock-off merchandise and humans, illegal fishing, sweatshops—there didn’t seem to be anything on Stony Man’s radar that would necessitate actually going to the region. Even the fringe Japanese terrorist groups had been lying low recently. It was almost...

Too quiet, Bolan thought. The all-too-apparent lack of activity ironically seemed to point at something going on.

A chime from his combat laptop signaled an incoming videophone message. Bolan opened a window to answer it, and saw Tokaido’s smiling face.

Bolan didn’t mince words. “I assume you’ve got something for me?”

“Yeah. Whoever pulled that file together included every possible scrap of information about the yacht they could find, even down to service records, so my job wasn’t too difficult.”

“And?”

Tokaido tapped keys, and another window opened on Bolan’s screen, showing the lines of a yacht out at sea through the powerful camera of a spy satellite hundreds of miles overhead. The ship’s coordinates were in the upper right corner of the window, roughly 160 nautical miles northwest of the Philippines. As he watched, a speedboat raced in from the north, pulling up to the rear of the large pleasure craft. The detail from the picture was enough to show a dark-haired woman getting off the speedboat, dressed in business attire and carrying a small briefcase.

“Who’s that, and why is a businesswoman meeting with what are supposed to be pirates?” Bolan asked

“The pirates are very real. We found a satellite in the area two days earlier that caught the takeover on the periphery of its camera. They’re definitely hijackers, although they haven’t followed the usual pattern of either stripping and sinking the boat or modifying and selling it. Instead, they’ve stayed on board for the past two days. And now the woman comes aboard, a very unusual piece to this puzzle. We ran her picture through our database and found this.”

A newspaper article from the Hong Kong Standard appeared next to a blow-up and enhancement of the woman’s face. In the picture accompanying the article, an older gentleman was accepting some kind of honor from another suited businessman, the two shaking hands and smiling for the cameras. “The man on the right is Hu Ji Han, a noted businessman and philanthropist in Hong Kong. The man he’s shaking hands with is the chief executive of the city. The woman—” the newspaper photo magnified to reveal her sitting in the first row of the assembled visitors’ area “—is his personal secretary.”

The back of Bolan’s neck tingled with the distinct feeling he got when his instincts told him something much bigger was going on. “Why do I get the feeling that she’s not shopping for a discount watercraft.”

“Hardly. Mr. Hu could buy half the Chinese navy if he wanted, with enough money left over to raise another few skyscrapers in downtown Hong Kong.”

“What do you have on him?”

“Chinese national, sixty-four years old. Rose from nothing to create his business, which specializes in disaster recovery and infrastructure rebuilding. It’s one of the top companies in the nation, notwithstanding the rumors that Mr. Hu overextended himself during the building spree before the Olympics. However, he doubled down on ailing U.S. banks and national companies, such as Ford, Citibank, et cetera, during the fallout from the loan disaster in the U.S., and emerged even richer than before.”

Bolan’s mouth quirked in what might have been the beginning of a smile. “Well, then, I doubt he’s planning to branch out into actual crime. Legal theft is so much more profitable, as everyone saw recently. Still, this is the highest of high society meeting with the lowest of the low. There’s a bigger picture going on here, and we need to find out more than just this little bit.”

Tokaido smiled. “I figured you might say that. What’d you have in mind?”

Here came the tricky part. While Bolan had investigated the death or abduction of relatives of high-powered Washington players before, he didn’t intend to run a revenge mission to satisfy Brognola’s vendetta. However, if the opportunity arose to eliminate these people while they were committing another, even more serious crime, that could work just as well. But he needed a handpicked member with extensive time in Asia to handle this. Bolan knew exactly whom he could call upon for this mission.

“Get me our contact information on John Trent. My plan’s still to stop off in Africa to investigate the Sale in the Sands. Hopefully Trent will be able to take a bit of a vacation and take a look into whatever is going on in Southeast Asia, not to mention the infiltration of this pirate group.” Bolan’s gaze went back to the open video window, where the woman was leaving, reaching down with one hand to enter the boat, her other hand outstretched to keep her balance.

Her empty left hand.

“She left the briefcase behind.” He peered more closely at the picture, but it faded into static as the satellite passed out of range. His head snapped up, his ice-blue eyes staring back at his computer hacker with steely resolve. “They’re up to something, and I want to find out what.”

“I’m forwarding you Trent’s number right now.”

“Good. Meanwhile, continue expediting the arrangement for Morocco. There’ll be a few unexpected guests attending the convention this year.”

“What, you mean you’re not going to pose as an MS-13 member looking for hardware?”

Bolan shook his head. “No, I want you to spoof that invite to a mercenary leader cover identity I’ve been wanting to get out there for a while. I discussed it with Gary Manning a while back, he can fill you in on the details.”

“Okay, I’ll give him a call and get to work. No rest for the wicked, apparently.”

“Nor for the righteous, either. Striker out.” He signed off and brought up John Trent’s home number, letting the internet dialer connect him.

* * *

JOHN TRENT FACED OFF against his five opponents, all of whom were arrayed around him in a loose circle. Confident and loose, he stood right where he was, not moving a muscle. He was aware of the position and likely initial attack method of each of his foes, and was ready to counter whatever they might throw at him.

As if on an unseen signal, all of them charged at him at once, intending to overwhelm him with their superior numbers. John blocked the forward punch of the one in front of him and moved aside just enough to redirect the force of his blow, knocking the man off-balance and sending him stumbling into the thug next to him—taking both of them out of the fight for a moment. Trent stepped forward into the opening they left even as he felt a hand grab the collar of his jacket.

Instantly he spun into the man’s attempt to grapple with him, confusing his attacker for a moment, and also interrupting the other two men’s attacks. Face-to-face with the third man, Trent wrapped his left arm around the man’s right, breaking his grip while bringing his right hand, fingers stiffened, up into the man’s throat before he could block it. The man would have staggered backward, except for Trent’s hold on him. He used his control of the man to push him into the other two, making them dodge their ally instead of attack him.

By now the first two had recovered, and were coming after Trent again. He ducked the overhand strike of one and punched him in the groin, sending him to the ground. His partner tried bringing his interlaced

hands down on Trent’s head, but he avoided the blow by leaning to one side, then grabbed the man’s hands and pulled him into a throw over his leg, ending the takedown with two lightning-quick strikes to the man’s left temple.

Two down, three to go.

Trent rose to his feet as the three eyed him warily, aware of what he could do, but not willing to give up just yet. The three sized him up for another moment, then all came at him at once. Trent met the one on the left’s front kick with a block that levered his foot up and into the middle man’s arm, knocking his punch away. Trent pushed up higher and away, making the man fall backward on his buttocks. Without stopping, he shot his elbow into the temple of the middle man, dropping him, then ducked a knife slash from the last man, coming up inside his reach and trapping the weapon hand in a wrist lock that let him control his attacker’s movement, taking him down to the ground. Trent disarmed the man, popping him in the jaw with the butt of the knife, then rose to take on the first guy again, who had gotten to his feet and was coming after him again, this time with a leaping high kick.

Again Trent moved into the attack, stabbing the man in the groin with the blade of the knife and taking him out of the fight.

The whole encounter had taken less than ten seconds.

Trent’s five “attackers” all got up from the ground and bowed him, straightening their gis as they did. Trent bowed back to them before turning to the other students of his advanced ninjitsu class.

“As you have been learning ever since you began this martial art path, ninjitsu is no one way, it is using whatever method, move or means that is effective to defeat one’s opponent. In the demonstration you just saw, I used a variety of moves to keep my opponents off balance and off target. Usually, however, when faced with five-to-one odds, I would disable them enough to escape and find the nearest police officer.”

That comment brought chuckles from the class. “Okay, let’s split into groups of three and practice two-on-one sparring. Use everything you’ve been taught, both as attackers and defenders. Do fifteen rounds, five for each person in each position, then move up to knives and clubs. I’ll be coming around to instruct as you work.”

The class split into smaller groups as Trent’s assistant approached him, holding a cell phone. “Sensei, I’m afraid you have an urgent phone call. The caller says he is an old friend from the farm.”

Trent looked at him, black eyebrows raised in surprise. “Hmm. I’ll take it.” He took the cell phone and walked to a corner of the dojo. “This is John Trent.”

“Mack Bolan here, John. I won’t bore you with small talk and will get right to the point. How would you feel about helping me out again?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Hu Ji Han positioned himself and addressed the ball on his tee, a four iron held firmly in his gloved hands. A momentary pause, then inhale as he swung the club back and exhale as he brought it down, the power flowing from his shoulders and waist into the club head, smacking the ball into the clear blue sky. It sailed over the azure ocean water to land in the center of the fairway, roughly two hundred yards from the green.

“Excellent shot, Mr. Hu.” His golfing partner, an impeccably dressed man with a polished Oxford accent, inclined his head in approval. The two men, along with their caddies and a junior member from each company, were on the third hole of the ocean nine at the Clearwater Bay Golf and Country Club. The day was perfect for the challenging course, including this par four, 460-yard hole that required the players to angle a shot over a stretch of the South China Sea to even have a chance to line up their approach to the green and make par.

“Thank you.” Golf normally calmed Hu’s mind, although this day his thoughts were in disarray. He was meeting with the representative of this particular company to ensure that the final pieces of his opening gambit were ready to be introduced into play. He was playing well enough, but the course was merciless, and the slightest lapse of concentration could cost him.

His partner, one Rhys Davis-Smythe, took his position and addressed his ball. He was several inches taller than the short Chinese man, and whipcord-lean. Hu couldn’t tell if he had always been in sales, since he had noticed scars on Davis-Smythe’s hands before he had pulled his gloves on. Plus, he was always alert to everything that was going on around them, from other groups playing in front and behind them to even the noisy call of a seagull as it took off into the stiff breeze. None of this seemed to affect his game in the slightest, as evidenced by the crushing shot he hit, following the same route Hu had, and winding up fifty yards closer to the green.

“A superb shot, as well, Mr. Davis-Smythe.” Usually fiercely competitive, Hu was willing to lose this round, as long as it ensured that he got what he wanted. That didn’t mean that he was going to make it easy on his opponent. Hu handed his club to his caddy and began strolling toward his lie. “Have you ever played the ocean nine before?”

Davis-Smythe inclined his head toward Hu. “I confess that I have not had the pleasure before your very gracious invitation. It is a beautiful, if challenging course.”

“Indeed. I appreciate that you could make time in your schedule on such short notice to join me today.”

“As you are probably aware, Mr. Hu, you are one of our most important customers at the moment. When you extended your invitation to join you here, my superiors let me know that I had no other duties save making this appointment. I am pleased to say that this does not feel even remotely like business.”

“That is good to hear.” The Englishman was reserved and cool, yet Hu found himself liking the man. From the moment they had met, he’d showed the proper respect to both an elder and a top customer. He took a moment to look out over the sea, watching the ship traffic come and go around the city. “I agree with your sentiment, but unfortunately, I’m afraid that business must intrude upon what has been a very pleasant outing so far. Let us hope that it won’t intrude too much. You are a very worthy opponent, and I would hate to distract you from our game.”

Again a slight nod from Davis-Smythe. “By all means. I was fairly certain that this wasn’t a purely social call. I will endeavor to answer whatever questions you may have, and anything that I cannot speak to I will look into upon my return to the office, and have an answer for you not later than the end of the day.”

“Excellent. To begin, please give me a current status report of the assets in play,” Hu requested as they approached his ball.

“Well, sir, the mission you requested certainly tasked the majority of our available personnel, but I am pleased to report that we were able to mobilize and transport more than eighty percent of our active personnel within forty-eight hours of the finalization of the contract. Currently there are 357 men awaiting orders to strike the designated target location.”

“Excellent. Please detail the vehicles and equipment that you plan to use to achieve my stated objectives.”

“Of course. To begin with, we have mortar teams ready to entrench in their designated zones to supply preassault fire to soften up the target before the main assault. Our support aircraft are two Boeing AH-6 gunships, armed with 30 mm chain guns and 2.75 mm rocket pods. The ground forces will launch their initial assault in a dozen M1117 Guardian ASVs, each equipped with a 40 mm grenade launcher, a .50-caliber machine gun and an M240H medium machine gun.Also, there will be more than a dozen Humvees mounting both wire-guided TOW missiles and turret-

mounted .50-caliber heavy machine guns, to achieve maximum fire penetration, supporting the individual combat units. As the majority of the attendees will be carrying light arms at best, we expect to achieve a kill rate of at least eighty percent.”

“Most impressive. And what about the additional mission we had discussed?”

Davis-Smythe cleared his throat. “Yes, well, as the vast majority of our men are currently tasked under the primary mission, we have had to outsource the two teams for that one. However, I am pleased to let you know that we have two top freelance teams under contract for each target. We have worked with each group before, and can highly recommend them. They are under contract with us, and are bound by our insurance and liability.”

“Very good.”

“Just to verify, the men’s orders are to set the autopilot, set the munitions that they will bring on board, and then debark from the ship, leaving it aimed toward the harbor to detonate when it reaches its final destination?”

“That is acceptable, as long as the freighters make it as close to shore as possible. That is key.”

“I will inform our men of this and ensure that they execute your directives to the utmost of their ability.”

Hu nodded. “Excellent. The recommendations I received when investigating whom to contract to handle these tasks were most accurate. I’m also very pleased with your readiness and efficiency.” Satisfied with the answers he’d received, Hu addressed his ball again with a six iron, drew back and swung. His shot arced high and landed on the far end of the green, approximately twenty yards from the pin.

“Another excellent shot. Given the generous terms of the contract you signed with us, Force Forward made absolutely every effort to meet your requests, and we are very pleased that you are satisfied with the results so far. I trust that our people will continue to live up to the high standards that you expect.” Davis-Smythe began walking toward his own ball again. “Are there any other questions that you have?”

“Not at this time. If all goes well, I should be able to give you the go-ahead instructions within the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours.”

“Very good, sir.”

Hu’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket as they walked. “I’m afraid it is my office calling. If you will excuse me for a moment, gentlemen.” He walked several yards away, then answered. “Yes?”

“It is done,” Zheng Rong’s calm voice replied.

“Excellent. We should contact our other parties. No doubt they are getting restless, as well.”

“Yes, sir, however, I would not do so on an unsecured line. May I suggest that you do so when you are back in the office? I will get in touch with each of them and set up an appropriate call for each.”

“That would be excellent, Ms. Zheng. Is everything else proceeding as we desire?”

“Yes. The men are preparing themselves right now. All we need is for the right pair of vessels to come along, and we will be ready to go. I have been reviewing the shipping schedules, and have identified several likely possibilities. I have also marked several vessels that will be suitable for the longer-range aspects of your plan. A complete report will be available for you upon your return.”

“Very good. I will return later this afternoon.” He disconnected and rejoined his foursome to head to their various shots. “Gentlemen, let us proceed. On the way, Mr. Davis-Smythe, perhaps you can enlighten me as to how you are enjoying your time in our city?” As he spoke, Hu spotted the other man’s shot land on the green, less than five yards from the pin, where he had been consistently hitting all day.

Smiling at the challenge, Hu prepared himself for a demanding round of golf.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. I have just been informed by the tower that we are cleared for our final approach, and will be touching down in the next few minutes. We appreciate your patience during the delay, and hope that you have enjoyed your flight with us. Flight crew, please prepare for landing.”

John Trent relaxed in his business-class airline seat, sparing a pitying thought for the folks crammed back in coach after their fifteen-hour flight. Returning his seat to its upright position, he stowed his tray table then turned to the window, looking down on the hustle and bustle of Hong Kong, the southern jewel of China.

Skyscrapers dominated the landscape, reducing the still-thick forests surrounding the sprawling city to tiny green trees. The morning sun glittered on the water, its rays refracting into thousands of brilliant diamonds that lit the harbor, interspersed with dozens of ships that plied the waterways, from the classic, trendy tourist junks to the ponderous, massive cargo ships and tankers that sailed through the strait daily. Everywhere he looked, Trent saw a thriving city, even amid the oppressive overall global recession that had sapped the business center’s strength. Although the economic markets had receded from their lofty highs of a few years ago, in Hong Kong, it still looked as though business was quite good, at least on the surface.

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