# Murder Island

Don Pendleton

Hunter's SnareOn an uncharted island in the Indian Ocean, a psychotic hunter stalks the most dangerous prey: man. His newest target is an international arms dealer, a criminal who was in CIA custody when his plane was shot down. Sent in to locate the missing prisoner, Mack Bolan finds himself caught in the same trap.But Bolan isn't the only one trying to secure the arms dealer. A team of mercenaries has joined the game, and they're playing to win. Hunted by the mercs, a psychopath's army and the island's deadly animal life, Bolan will need every tactic in his arsenal to recapture the prisoner and put an end to a maniac's big game hunt.

HUNTER’S SNARE

On an uncharted island in the Indian Ocean, a psychotic hunter stalks the most dangerous prey: man. His newest target is an international arms dealer, a criminal who was in CIA custody when his plane was shot down. Sent in to locate the missing prisoner, Mack Bolan finds himself caught in the same trap.

But Bolan isn’t the only one trying to secure the arms dealer. A team of mercenaries has joined the game, and they’re playing to win. Hunted by the mercs, a psychopath’s army and the island’s deadly animal life, Bolan will need every tactic in his arsenal to recapture the prisoner and put an end to a maniac’s big game hunt.

The tiger sprang toward him, jaws wide.

Bolan hurtled forward, the sharp edges of the plants smacking into him. He could hear the tiger panting behind him.

The Executioner began calculating the distance he would need between himself and the animal to get off a good shot. If it came down to it, he would have to roll when the beast lunged and try to get under it. He might stand a chance if he could put a shot into its heart or its head before the tiger opened him up with its claws.

Suddenly, the greenery gave way to a sea of lights. Bolan skidded to a halt inches away from the wide expanse of tinted glass that marked the boundary of the rooftop atrium. The glass was wet with condensation, but even so he could see the panorama of Hong Kong at night spread out before him.

Bolan heard the scrape of the tiger’s paws and spun, leveling the UMP. Too late. The tiger hit him like a cannonball, and he slammed backward into the glass. There was a sound like a hundred bottles shattering, and then the night air caught him, and he was spinning through space in a cloud of broken glass.

Murder Island


Don Pendleton


The good man is perished out of the earth: and there is none upright among men: they all lie in wait for blood; they hunt every man his brother with a net.

—Micah 7:2

The world is full of bloodthirsty men, but not all of them are brutal hunters. And those who would betray their brothers, their allies or their country will have to deal with me.

—Mack Bolan

THEMACK BOLANLEGEND

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Quotes

The Mack Bolan Legend

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5]

[6]

[7]

[8]

[9]

[10]

[11]

[12]

[13]

[14]

[15]

[16]

[17]

[18]

[19]

[20]

[21]

Copyright


### [1]

Mack Bolan paused, straining to catch the smallest whisper of sound. The air was hot, and a trickle of sweat inched its way between the dark fatigues he wore beneath his body armor and the skin on the back of his neck. Insects buzzed softly around him, audible but not visible. The jungle was awash in sound, but it was muted by the close-set foliage that cast shadows over the trail ahead.

Bolan had a lean, rangy shape. He stood so still that if anyone had been present, they might have thought him simply one more shadow among the multitude cast by the trees that rose up around him. Their wide, fleshy leaves formed a green canopy overhead.

There was no sky to be seen above him and no road ahead of him—only a wall of vibrant greens, yellows and browns. The air pressed in on Bolan’s mouth and nose like a wet towel. He was reminded of a Louisiana hothouse he’d once had the bad fortune to spend a night in. He’d been hunting that night, as well—different targets, but for similar reasons.

Wary now, his combat-honed senses tingling, the Executioner sank down and checked his gear. A Heckler & Koch UMP-45 was strapped across his chest and his Ka-Bar knife sat snugly in its sheath on his leg. His Desert Eagle pistol was on his hip and a sound-suppressed Beretta 93-R was holstered at the small of his back. The Beretta was set to fire 3-round bursts—something that had proved handy more than once. It was a .22 TCM conversion, with a 25-round magazine, plus one in the chamber. The Desert Eagle, in contrast, had only eight rounds in the magazine, but it also had a good deal more stopping power.

All three firearms, as well as the quintet of M-18 smoke grenades hanging from his web gear, had been provided by Stony Man Farm’s resident weapons guru, John “Cowboy” Kissinger, and as such could be relied on to perform to battlefield specifications.

Bolan crouched there for long moments, poised on the knife edge of action. An acrid odor filled his nostrils—a raw scent, an animal stink that set cruel hooks into the atavistic portions of his brain. His body screamed at him to freeze, but he had long experience in ignoring such instincts and he lunged forward, rolling away.

A heavy body, tawny and striped black, slammed down on the spot where he’d been crouched. A long shape unwound and turned toward him, tail lashing in frustration as Bolan rose to his feet. He hadn’t expected to see a tiger and the microsecond of surprise that followed nearly cost him his life. The animal leaped again. Bolan jerked aside. His back slammed into a tree and the tiger surged past, vanishing into the foliage with a frustrated snarl.

Adrenaline pumping now, Bolan tracked the flashes of orange as the animal circled him. He hefted the UMP, considering. The soldier rarely killed animals unless absolutely necessary. Then again, he might not get the chance. Tigers were, pound for pound, among the most dangerous animals on the planet, fully capable of killing a man as well-schooled in the ways of war as himself.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, the tiger sprang at him again, jaws wide. Bolan shoved away from the tree and began to run. He hurtled forward, the sharp edges of the plants smacking into him. He could hear the tiger panting behind him. The Executioner began calculating the distance he would need between him and the animal to get off a good shot. If it came down to it, he would have to roll when the beast lunged and try to get under it. He might stand a chance if he could put a shot into its heart or its head before the tiger opened him up with its claws.

Suddenly the greenery of the jungle gave way to a sea of lights. Bolan skidded to a halt inches away from the wide expanse of tinted glass that marked the boundary of the rooftop atrium. The glass was wet with condensation, but even so he could see the panorama of Hong Kong at night spread out in front of him.

This close to the window, he could hear the alarms and see a query mark of oily smoke rising from the car he’d set on fire on the street below. The fire had occupied the building’s staff while Bolan had taken the elevator as high as it could go. Unfortunately the elevator required a code and a retina scan to go any higher. It had been simple enough to climb out the hatch in the elevator’s roof and haul himself up the cables to the next floor, insert a pry bar between the elevator doors and make his way into the penthouse apartments of Byron Cloud.

The guards outside Cloud’s apartment had been easy enough to dispatch, and quietly at that. But the ones inside had been a different matter. The firefight had allowed Cloud to make his escape. He had the instincts of a rat and he’d fled the moment Bolan showed his face, running for the stairs that led from the penthouse to this atrium and a helipad.

The indoor jungle was only one of Cloud’s seemingly endless indulgences. The tiger was another, judging by its rhinestone collar. Cloud had likely let the animal loose, hoping it would occupy Bolan. He shook his head slightly, bemused. It wasn’t often that someone threw a vicious animal at him.

Cloud made his tiger money by selling weapons to the weaponless. Guns, bombs and worse were his stock-in-trade; if it could be used to kill, Cloud had it in stock. He’d supplied more than a dozen terrorist organizations and criminal cartels with the tools of their filthy trade, and he had contact with the representatives of a dozen more.

Cloud was a walking Rolodex of operational intelligence, both for American security agencies and those of America’s allies. But he was protected, both politically and otherwise, which meant extradition of any sort was out. He occupied the first three floors of a building he owned through a shell corporation, and he had a security staff big enough to take over a small island nation, which meant any attempt to remove him forcibly would get very ugly very quickly.

None of which bothered the Executioner.

Bolan had come to Hong Kong at the request of the man who, once upon a time, had been in charge of the Federal task force assigned to bring the Executioner to heel. Now they were brothers-in-arms. Brognola was head of the Sensitive Operations Group and he directed the Stony Man Farm counterterrorist teams. When Hal Brognola, asked for help, Bolan gave it gladly. Especially when it involved taking down a creature like Cloud, a man who was no less guilty than the criminals and terrorists he supplied.

Bringing Cloud to heel was too far outside the remit of any organization—even an extralegal group like Stony Man—to accomplish without jeopardizing international relations. But the Executioner could do as he damn well pleased.

Bolan heard the scrape of the tiger’s paws and spun, leveling the UMP. But too late. The tiger hit him like a cannonball and he slammed backward into the glass. There was a sound like a hundred bottles shattering at once, and then the night air caught him and he was spinning through space in a cloud of broken glass. His stomach gave a lurch and he lost his grip on the UMP. The startled roar of the tiger filled his ears.

The Hong Kong skyline spun crazily around him for a moment that seemed to stretch for an eternity, a revolving kaleidoscope of colors and lights. As he twisted, the scope of his vision was abruptly filled by an orange expanse of water.


### [2]

Bolan crossed his arms over his head as the water rose up to meet him. He hit the surface and the force of his descent slammed him down against the bottom. White and yellow tiles burst at the point of impact and pain shot through him, shocking him into motion.

He’d been hurt worse, and he forced the pain aside as he fought the instinct to struggle. It took him only a few seconds to realize he was in a swimming pool. He’d held his breath just before he hit, but if the water was deep enough to cushion his landing it was deep enough to drown in.

Through chlorine-stung eyes, he saw the rush of bubbles that signaled the tiger joining him in the water. The animal struggled to the surface with great flailing motions, and Bolan thrust upward a moment later, muscles and lungs burning in equal measure. He splashed toward the shallow end of the rooftop pool, away from the tiger. His body armor had three great slashes running across it where the big cat’s claws had caught him. The vest was fully capable of stopping bullets, but 600 pounds of angry carnivore was a different matter entirely. Luckily, the tiger didn’t seem interested in resuming the hunt. It glowered at him for a moment before it shook itself and padded away.

Satisfied there was no immediate danger, Bolan took in his surroundings. The atrium was only a single story above him, and he’d fallen into the pool that occupied the flat, patio-style balcony of the penthouse apartments below. Only luck had prevented his landing from being more unpleasant or even fatal, and a surge of anger, both at himself and at his quarry, rippled through him. It wasn’t often Bolan was caught by surprise. He thrust the thought away as he began to pull himself out of the pool.

He turned as a crackle of static assaulted his ears and a voice said, “It’s like this, right—what good is owning a tiger if you don’t let it eat somebody every now and then? That’s half the value right there, I swear to God. I think I’m going to get a leopard seal next, though. Or maybe a hyena. I know a guy in Lagos who’s got one—a hyena, I mean, not a leopard seal. Though wouldn’t that be great? Shit, maybe I’ll get both. What do you think? Never mind, you’ve got other things to worry about.” A second wash of static accompanied this burst of verbal diarrhea and Bolan spotted the intercom speakers wired along the wall.

A moment later he heard a familiar noise and turned as a helicopter bobbed into view above the edge of the roof. The intercom crackled again as the side door to the helicopter was hauled open by a wiry man in a suit worth more than the penthouse, with an artificial tan and teeth whiter than nature intended.

Byron Cloud was a parody of every renegade Wall Street trader and stock-and-bond hustler Bolan had run across in his long career. Cloud lifted his designer sunglasses onto his head and waved at Bolan as if to catch his attention. He was wearing a headset and, as he spoke, his voice emerged again from the intercoms.

“You like it? I got it cheap—it’s a Sikorsky S-76,” Cloud said. “Of course, I’ve made a few adjustments,” he continued, patting an M-60 machine gun mounted on an adjustable pintle arm. “Yard sale,” he said, bringing the machine gun around. “You would not believe what you can get for under a sawbuck in this economy.”

He grinned at Bolan over the length of the weapon. “Shame about the pad, but, hey, buyer’s market. Besides, the feng shui needs a shakeup. Am I right? Ciao!” Cloud fired and the M-60 bucked in his grip. His laughter echoed from the speakers.

Bolan ran for the patio doors and hurled himself through even as gunfire chewed the frame and the wall around them. Splinters of wood, plaster and glass filled the air. Bolan hit a leather couch with his shoulder and flipped it over. Bullets punched through, narrowly missing him.

He scanned the room, wishing he hadn’t lost the UMP in the fall. Bolan couldn’t take on an M-60 with only a pistol. He caught sight of the bodies of the guards he’d killed earlier. More importantly, he saw their weapons. He reached out with his foot and snagged the nylon strap of an AR-15 semi-auto rifle. He dragged it closer as bullets continued to sear the air around him.

“Still alive?” Cloud called through the few speakers he hadn’t managed to hit with his spray of gunfire. Whatever else he was, Cloud was no marksman. Nor did he seem to be trying particularly hard. He was like a child with a new toy. “Sweet,” Cloud said, as if Bolan had replied. “Look, I’m not a bad guy, right? I’ll give you a five count to get to the elevator. Then I’m opening up again.”

Bolan shook his head. He’d fought talkers before, but rarely one so intent on filling the air with absolute nonsense. He checked his newly acquired weapon. It would do in a pinch. He had the range, now he needed cover. Bolan removed one of the smoke grenades from his web gear, pulled the pin and sent the canister sailing over the top of the couch, out toward the patio.

“One, two…five!” Cloud said. The M-60 opened up again, chewing the apartment’s expensive decor to pieces. “We’re having some fun now, right?” he shouted as Bolan popped more smoke, using every grenade he had. He saw the tiger pad swiftly through the swirling fog, heading for the rear of the apartment, and felt a moment of relief. The beast deserved better than to die at the hands of its careless owner.

Bolan was tempted to return fire, but Brognola had been adamant that they needed Cloud alive and in one piece. There was too much information in that scrambled brain of his. Bolan couldn’t risk letting anyone else kill Cloud, either. It was only a matter of hours before every hired gun in the Pacific region was on Cloud’s trail, looking to punch his ticket once they knew he’d been compromised. Cloud’s clients, whatever their political affiliation or criminal record, couldn’t allow him to talk. Bolan wondered whether Cloud knew that or not; or if he did, whether he cared. It didn’t matter either way. Bolan had a mission to accomplish and he intended to do it.

He hefted the AR-15 and rose. The smoke thinned for a moment and that was all he needed. He let off a burst and heard the telltale sound of a bullet striking metal. The M-60 stuttered into silence and Cloud’s curse echoed through the intercoms. As the helicopter’s rotors began to clear the smoke, Bolan saw the other man trying to coax the machine gun back to life. Bolan’s shots had struck the weapon’s box magazine, denting it and causing the temperamental weapon to jam.

Cloud gave up when he saw Bolan and started laughing again. “Ha! Man, you come straight out of a comic book,” he said. “Right, fine, it’s been fun, but I’m out of toys and I’ve got a plane to Tokyo idling on the runway. Going to get me some sushi and wait for whatever this is to blow over. Catch you later, pal.” Cloud gave a jaunty wave as he swung himself into the compartment and made to shut the hatch. The helicopter began to pull away from the roof.

Bolan sprang over the couch. He was only going to get one chance at this. He tossed the assault rifle aside and charged forward. As he reached the edge of the balcony, he didn’t pause, but instead put on a burst of speed and leaped out over the void, angling his body toward the helicopter. Time seemed to slow as his perceptions stretched and thinned. The sound of the rotors became a thundering rumble and the background noise of the city below faded, replaced by the hammering of his pulse. Time rushed forward, speeding back up. His fingers hooked the edge of the hatch and he swung inside.

Cloud gaped at him and didn’t react until the soles of Bolan’s boots bit into the deck of the helicopter. Bolan wobbled a moment, warring against gravity, and then he lurched forward to tackle Cloud. The arms dealer slammed back against the other side of the compartment with a yell before charging at Bolan. Something gleamed in Cloud’s hand, and Bolan heard the hiss of the straight razor cutting the air as he jerked his head aside. He drove a fist into Cloud’s belly, and the arms dealer folded over his forearm, wheezing like an asthmatic. The straight razor clattered to the deck and Bolan kicked it through the open hatch. Grabbing a handful of Cloud’s throat, he slammed him into a seat, drew his Desert Eagle and aimed at the pilot, who’d been clawing for his own sidearm.

“Don’t,” Bolan said as he cocked his pistol. “Take it out, nice and slow, and toss it. I’d prefer not to shoot you, but the only person I can’t shoot is your boss. Remember that, and you might just get out of this in one piece.” When the pilot had disposed of his weapon, Bolan rattled off a series of coordinates and then said, “You know where that is?”

The pilot nodded. Bolan gestured with the Desert Eagle. “Good. Get going.” He looked back at Cloud, whose face was purpling as he clawed ineffectually at Bolan’s unyielding grip. He loosened his hold on the other man. “And you—behave.”

“You—you can’t shoot me,” Cloud croaked.

“Did I say I was going to shoot you?” Bolan asked. He smiled thinly. “I don’t need a gun to hurt you, Mr. Cloud,” he said, layering his words with as much menace as he could. Cloud blanched and ceased his struggles.

“All right, it’s cool, be cool, man,” he whined, holding up his hands. “I was just playing.” He sagged away from Bolan. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“I’m the guy with the gun,” Bolan said. “Now sit back and shut up.” He grinned fiercely. “You’ve got a plane to catch.”


### [3]

“Hello, Byron. How’ve you been?” Tony Spence said, his amusement evident. Bolan shoved Cloud forward. He’d bound the man’s wrists with a zip-tie on the trip to the airfield. He’d done the same to the pilot, and he propelled his second captive forward to stand beside Cloud.

“Spence,” Cloud said. He made the agent’s name sound like a curse. Spence was the CIA’s man in Hong Kong. He was short, plump and dressed like a tourist. The tooled-leather shoulder holster he wore beneath his cheap sports coat was occupied by a 9 mm pistol and his hands had the hard calluses of a fighter.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Spence said. He took his sunglasses off and grinned at Bolan. “Agent Cooper, good to see you again.” One of Bolan’s many cover identities, Matt Cooper was an agent of the Justice Department.

“Cooper,” Cloud said slyly, glancing at Bolan. “Is that your name? I’ll remember it.” Bolan didn’t feel threatened as much as amused. Cloud might consider himself a hard man, but Bolan had faced worse in his long, bloody career.

“Shut up, Byron,” Spence said, swatting Cloud on the back of the head. “The grown-ups are talking.” He smiled at Bolan. “They told me you were good, Cooper, but I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.”

“We aim to please,” Bolan said. “I wasn’t aware we’d met before.”

“Oh, we haven’t. I saw you at a distance, during that Ackroyd thing a while ago.” Bolan nodded. “The Ackroyd thing” as Spence put it, had been bad—a group of psychotic white supremacists had attempted to let loose an antediluvian plague. Bolan had tracked them halfway to the Arctic Circle before he could put paid to the threat they represented. “Good job with that, by the by,” Spence continued. “Anyway, when they said you could get our guy out of his sanctum sanctorum, I wasn’t sure, but we’ve tried everything else. Ol’ Byron here is a slippery one.” He took hold of Cloud’s arm. “Come on. You look like you could use a cup of coffee. We got time before our flight.”

“I could go for a coffee,” Cloud said.

“Shut up,” Spence replied amiably. He gestured to the pilot. “Bring him, too.”

Bolan hooked the pilot by the back of his shirt and pushed him after the others. As they walked, he took in the airfield. The cracked tarmac sprouted grass and the hangars and buildings had seen better decades. This had been an RAF base, once upon a time, but now it was privately owned. Whether the CIA was the owner in question, or merely borrowing it for the occasion, Bolan didn’t know.

Spence led Bolan toward a hangar that held a midsize private jet and a crew working to get the plane ready.

“Mine’s bigger,” Cloud said.

“Yours was bigger. The Chinese have probably confiscated it by now,” Spence said. He shoved Cloud at another man. “Get him on the plane and make sure he’s cuffed, for God’s sake. Wait—you got to use the toilet?” he asked, grabbing Cloud.

“I’m not a five-year-old,” Cloud snapped.

“Long flight.”

Cloud made a face and mumbled, “Yes.”

“Let him use the toilet and then cuff him.” He turned back to Bolan. “They used this place for Operation Yellowbird, you know,” he said as his people took the pilot and Cloud away. “One of several former airfields. MI-6 and the Agency share this one, though it’s on the books as the property of a Hong Kong film studio. You watch martial arts movies?”

Bolan looked at him blankly. Spence smiled. “Not a film guy, Cooper?”

“I read,” Bolan said.

“So do I,” Spence replied. “Mostly film books.” He grinned and Bolan shook his head and smiled back. “Anyway, they used filming as a cover for transporting a number of activists out of China to more hospitable climes. Whole thing was cooked up by a bunch of Hong Kong businessmen and the Agency got involved…”

“As they tend to do,” Bolan said.

Spence laughed. “Yeah. Got to keep those plates spinning, man.” He led Bolan into the hangar office. “Before my time, but I heard it was a hoot. Anyway, we’re lucky you got to him when you did. Someone—probably the Chinese—spilled the beans that we were onto Cloud, and it looks like his own people were getting ready to…you know…” Spence drew his thumb across his throat. “Hard to be an arms dealer these days, I guess.” He paused and then added, “Well, one that sells to terrorist groups, anyway.”

“You seem to be on a first-name basis with him,” Bolan said.

“Who, Byron? Yeah. He’s a mouthy little asshole, isn’t he?” Spence went to the desk, where a French press carafe sat on a tray. He tapped it. “Kenyan roast,” he said. “My one weakness.” He began to lower the press and the contents of the carafe gurgled. “I take this bad boy with me wherever I go. Anyway, yeah, Cloud’s a third-generation criminal. His granddaddy used to run a floating casino. He was mostly a blackmailer, but he dabbled in the arms trade and murder-for-hire. His daddy was of similar cut. Both were pretty nasty, so Byron’s comparatively harmless.”

“The weapons he sells aren’t,” Bolan said as Spence poured him a cup of coffee.

“Hope you like it strong,” Spence said, preparing his own cup. “And, no, they aren’t. But at least he’s not as good with a straight razor as his grandfather was, by all accounts.”

Bolan smiled. “True. So why bother with him now?”

Spence sipped his coffee. “Need-to-know, Cooper.” He smiled when he saw Bolan’s expression and waved a hand. “But between you, me and the deep, blue sea, he sold something he shouldn’t have had access to, to a group of Nigerian militants. We need to know how he knew about said something, how he got his paws on it, and who exactly he sold it to.” He scrubbed his chin with his knuckles. “Along the way, if we get a few more names and a few more grocery lists from him, well, so much the better.”

“Grocery lists? Is that official Agency terminology?” Bolan asked. He drank his coffee, which was good, he had to admit, and looked out the window at the edge of the airfield.

“That’s official Tony Spence terminology. Besides, what would you call them? They’re grocery lists, all right, only instead of radishes and yogurt it’s guns and bombs.” A crewman knocked on the office window and Spence nodded at him. “Plane’s about ready. You want to come along?” He sat on the desk. “I’m not going to lie. I’d feel better about having backup. Tokyo is a pretty friendly town, but a lot can happen between there and Melbourne.”

“You think someone will make a play for him,” Bolan said. It wasn’t a question.

“Oh, yes, sir. I do,” Spence said, refilling his cup. “I wouldn’t be surprised if every knucklehead with a gun between here and Sydney is getting a call right about now, asking for poor old Byron’s scalp.”

Bolan frowned and took another swallow of coffee. He was inclined to deal himself in, if only to make sure the Agency didn’t screw things up too badly. A situation such as this one could get very bloody, very quickly. Transporting prisoners was a dangerous job, and though Spence seemed competent enough, Bolan had a feeling skill alone wouldn’t see Cloud to his final destination safe and sound. He was about to reply when he spotted the truck. It rolled along outside the fence line, looking out of place.

“Is that truck one of yours?” Bolan asked.

Spence rose from the desk. “No,” he said, all trace of humor wiped from his round features. His hand moved for his pistol.

“Get to the plane,” Bolan said.

“Why—?”

The truck made a sudden, sharp turn and struck the fence, tearing it open in a spray of sparks and a scream of tearing metal. The truck was old; British army surplus, Bolan judged, though he wasn’t certain. “That’s why,” he said, pulling his pistol. “The plane, Spence!”

The truck barreled across the tarmac, trailing the remains of the fence after it. Spence ran for the plane and Bolan went to the window, smashing out a pane to clear himself a line of fire. The truck didn’t slow as it rumbled toward the plane. Bolan fired, emptying the magazine at the windshield and the driver’s cab in quick succession.

The windshield and side window exploded and the truck slewed awkwardly, rocking on its wheels. The section of fencing tore loose and spun toward Bolan, forcing him to seek the floor. It burst through the window and sliced over his head, smashing against the far wall. He pushed himself up quickly, ejecting his weapon’s spent magazine as he did so. As he reloaded, the tarp on the rear of the truck was thrown back and an assault rifle opened up. Bolan dropped below the edge of the window. What small protection the thin wall provided wouldn’t last long. He looked at the plane and saw that it had left the hangar and was taxiing down the weed-choked runway. He only needed to buy Spence a few more minutes.

Bolan glanced at the helicopter. If he could get to the M-60, he might have a shot. And if not, well, whether Spence was able to escape would be the least of his concerns. He crawled quickly to the door and headed for the hangar. Spence’s crew was putting up a fight, but they hadn’t been prepared for an attack. Gunfire rattled back and forth between the tarmac and the hangar as the plane moved slowly past. The attackers, whoever they were, were moving quickly to take the hangar.

Bolan darted out and slammed the door behind him even as shots chopped into it. Without pause, he moved away from the hangar, running full tilt for the helicopter. He fired as he ran, hitting one of the gunmen. The man spun away from the truck, his weapon firing into the air as he fell.

Bullets plucked the tarmac, pursuing him, and he felt bits of concrete strike the backs of his legs. At the last moment he leaped into the still-open compartment of the helicopter. Bullets hammered its frame, making the metal ring.

He had to move fast.

Bolan holstered his Desert Eagle and snagged the M-60. He drew his knife and used the heavy blade to pop the ammunition box loose from the body of the weapon. Quickly, with a precision born of experience, he cleared the jam and stood, swinging the machine gun around to face the truck.

He fired, letting the M-60 sing its deadly song at full volume. Spent brass dropped to the floor of the compartment. The truck rocked and its tarpaulin covering disintegrated. Gunmen tried to return fire, but Bolan swung the machine gun in a deadly arc, sending the survivors scrambling for cover. The plane continued to move down the runway.

The truck suddenly rumbled to life and began to reverse, rolling back toward the helicopter. Bolan grinned mirthlessly. He’d managed to distract them. He continued to fire as the truck bore down on him. The M-60 stuttered into silence, finally out of ammunition, and the truck’s engine roared as it sped up. Bolan threw himself backward as the truck closed in. When it struck the side of the helicopter in an explosion of shattered glass and twisted metal, he tucked himself into a ball, hoping to ride out the impact.

The truck continued to roll backward, shoving the helicopter along the tarmac in a steady spray of sparks. Bolan uncoiled and leaped for the twisted hatchway. Ignoring the flying shards of metal, he flung himself into the bed of the truck. Bolan hit hard and rolled to his feet. His adrenaline was flowing now, carrying him toward the truck’s cab.

He threw himself forward as the driver twisted around and fired a pistol. Bolan caught the man’s wrist, forcing the barrel of the pistol aside as he drew his Ka-Bar. The driver had time to cry out once as the tip of the knife plunged into his throat. The man slumped sideways and Bolan reached past him and grabbed the wheel. He brought the truck to a rattling halt as the plane left the runway at last.

Bolan allowed himself a small sigh of relief and murmured, “Good luck, Spence. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”


### [4]

“Well, isn’t that wonderful? All of them? Are you sure?” Hugo Meltzer hefted the remains of a chair and tried to force the tiger into the penthouse’s kitchen. His other hand held his phone to his ear. Meltzer grimaced as the tiger swiped at him. He kicked at it awkwardly and then jabbed at the animal with the chair. The tiger laid back its ears and exposed its teeth in a silent snarl. It wasn’t really dangerous. The beast was overfed and spoiled—little more than a plus-size house cat—but right now it was also wet, frightened and pissed off, thanks to Cloud and his as-yet-unidentified guest.

Meltzer was a tall man, and built spare. He’d been told he resembled a young Ron Ely, but he didn’t know who that was. He dressed nicely—not as well as Cloud, but better than he had. He didn’t buy-off-the-rack anymore when it came to clothes and guns, if he could help it.

“He used a what?” Meltzer glared at the phone and shook his head in disbelief. “Yeah, I know it was on the helicopter. I’m the one who showed him how to shoot the damn thing…Well, what about the truck— No, forget it. Keep an eye on the place…No, I don’t care if that’s where they filmed a scene from One-Legged Swordsman.”

The tiger pawed at the chair, nearly tearing it from Meltzer’s grip. “Get in the goddamn kitchen,” he shouted. “Not you,” he added quickly into the phone. “All you should be worried about is finding out where that damn plane went.”

The tiger roared. Meltzer cursed and bounced the phone off the tiger’s head. It jerked back, blinked and scrambled into the kitchen. Meltzer quickly pulled the door shut and wedged what was left of the chair under it.

He stared at the door for a moment and then tried to smooth his hair down. He cinched his tie and took a breath. Calm blue ocean, he thought. Calm blue ocean, soft sand, happy place. Hugo, go to your happy place.

His happy place was getting harder and harder to find, the longer he worked for Byron Cloud. Cloud was an immature psychopath, as rich as Croesus, with all the common sense of a particularly stupid and self-indulgent child. Meltzer was certain that working for Cloud was causing him to go prematurely gray, not to mention giving him an ulcer. He’d chased after Cloud for five years and considered shooting him at least twice a week. But the money was good and Cloud was generous when he remembered that actual humans were working for him. Which wasn’t often.

So, when Meltzer had heard that Byron’s big mouth had finally gotten him into the sort of trouble you didn’t get out of, limbs intact, he’d known it was time to renegotiate his contract. It had seemed simple. Grab Cloud and turn him over to the highest bidder.

Only somebody else had had the same idea. He looked around, taking in the bullet holes and spent grenade canisters. Whoever the guy was, he knew how to party. He’d played it sneaky right up to the penthouse when he’d gone straight to savage. Bodies were stacked in the corridor outside and the carpet was soaked in blood, which was a shame because it had been expensive.

He caught sight of a bullet-torn painting and winced. He covered his eyes and turned away. He’d spent weeks finding that painting. It really tied the whole room together. It even matched the damn tiger. He looked up at the ceiling. “I’m being punished, aren’t I? I’m in Hell right now, because that’s the only way I can explain this.”

Meltzer kicked a broken table, sending the pieces clattering across the tiles.

The day wasn’t going well. Then, his career hadn’t exactly turned out the way he’d hoped. He’d bounced from the military to the private sector fast enough to give him whiplash, and the one wasn’t turning out any better than the other. “I should have been a dentist,” he muttered.

He’d sent some of his best men—well, they were capable, at least—to grab Cloud from the airfield. There were only so many places a helicopter could land without attracting attention, and given the way the kidnapper had torn through the place, Meltzer had been fairly certain he wasn’t intending to fly commercial. Cloud also had a tracking chip inside a false tooth. It was more of that spy bullshit Cloud liked to play with, but it was coming in handy now.

Meltzer patted his coat pocket. The miniature GPS unit was about the size of a mobile phone. As long as Cloud was somewhere in the immediate hemisphere, they could find him.

He was tempted to dig it out, but he already knew what it would tell him—Cloud was in the air, heading God alone knew where. And all thanks to one asshole in black fatigues.

There was no telling who their visitor had been, or who he was working for, but the helicopter’s destination put up a few red flags. Were the Feds renting out that airfield to some other concern? The guy, whoever he’d been, was nasty enough to work for any number of groups. They’d caught him on several security cameras, but Meltzer hadn’t watched the footage yet. From what he’d been told, their visitor went through the unlucky bastards on duty like a buzz saw on two legs.

Meltzer wanted a cigarette. He’d given them up when he’d started working for Cloud, and the cravings hadn’t gotten any easier. He was looking forward to that first cigarette almost as much as the expression on Cloud’s face when he turned him over to whoever paid up first.

There was a raft of eager bidders. When word filtered up through the back channels that Cloud was about to experience an extraordinary rendition, thanks to that deal with the Nigerians, Meltzer had decided to seize the moment. He’d contacted a dozen of Cloud’s regular clients, all of whom were anonymous—their identities hidden behind encrypted lines and voice scramblers—and made his pitch, which had essentially boiled down to “Give me money, and I give you Cloud. Don’t give me money, and I let the Americans have him.” They had quickly made a counteroffer: “Give us Cloud, and we’ll pay you. Don’t, and we kill you.”

In retrospect, it hadn’t been his smartest play.

Glass crunched behind him and he turned. A group of men who’d been the elite of Cloud’s security forces, up until about three hours ago, had come into the apartment. All were armed. “Is the little shit dead?” one of the men, a scar-faced ex-marine named Horowitz, asked. He sounded hopeful. “Did they get him?”

Horowitz was a meathead and a troublemaker with attitude issues that probably should have been dealt with when he’d been a kid. He was a constant pain in Meltzer’s posterior and had been since he’d been hired.

“No such luck.” Sippo grunted. An older, gray-headed thug, Sippo had a Ph.D. The book smarts hadn’t stopped him from stuffing enough cocaine up his nose to kill an elephant and they sure hadn’t helped when he’d turned to armed robbery to finance said cocaine habit. Now he was a rent-a-thug with a bald spot and a face like a strip of jerky.

“No,” Meltzer said. “They got him on a plane. He’s gone.”

“How?” Horowitz demanded. “You sent a truckload of our guys over there!”

“Oh, they got a flat tire,” Meltzer said. He rolled his eyes. “How do you think? Somebody shot them. All of them. The same somebody who busted in here and did this.” He waved a hand at the room around him.

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know, he didn’t exactly introduce himself,” Meltzer said. “He’s a damn sight more effective than us, I’ll say that for him.” He surrendered to a moment of grudging admiration for the kidnapper. Whoever he was, the man had accomplished a lot in a short amount of time. It wouldn’t stop him from shooting the guy, if he ever got the chance, but Meltzer could give credit where it was due.

“Oh, damn it,” Horowitz said. He threw up his hands in exasperation. “What do we do now? Huh?” Horowitz had never been the patient sort.

Meltzer turned the bullet-riddled couch back over and flopped down onto it. “Give me a minute. I need to think.”

“Man, we don’t have time to think,” Horowitz said. “We need to go. The jihadists ain’t going to be happy with us. Or any of the others, for that matter. And who do you think they’re going to take that unhappiness out on, huh?” He gestured sharply. “Us, that’s who.” He looked around and heads nodded sagely in agreement, Sippo included. “We’ve got to do something. Maybe we can bargain with them. Buy our way out of the situation.”

Meltzer shivered slightly, as if the temperature in the room had dropped. He looked around, seeing hard faces and pitiless eyes. If it came down to it, Horowitz, Sippo and the others would turn him over to Cloud’s angry clients if they thought it would buy them a few more days. He couldn’t blame them, but all the same, he wasn’t looking forward to it.

He let his hand drift to the weapon holstered under his arm. It was his burden; a Mauser C-96. The pistol had been a gift from Cloud, though he shied away from the thought of that. Cloud had wanted his head of security to carry something fancy, as if he were a villain from a spy film and Meltzer was his quirky henchman.

That was their relationship in a nutshell. Meltzer had read his share of four-color funnies as a kid and he’d seen enough movies to know what happened to henchmen. Well, it wasn’t going to happen to him.

“I said I needed to think,” he repeated softly. His fingers brushed against the Mauser’s grips. He didn’t want to kill them—any of them—but he would if he had to. For now, he needed them. They were his muscle, and good muscle was hard to find in the current economic climate. Russian oligarchs and Saudi royalty paid more, and the private security companies offered better benefits. All Cloud offered was access to hardware and a blind eye in regard to repeat indiscretions.

“And I said—” Horowitz began, obviously looking to start something.

Meltzer was almost tempted to let him land the first punch. Instead he jerked to his feet and aimed his pistol at the other man’s crotch. He caught hold of Horowitz’s collar.

“I don’t care what you said,” Meltzer replied calmly. “Cloud didn’t hire you for your skills as a raconteur. He hired you because you’re a murderous thug.” He let his eyes roam across the faces of the others. “That’s why he hired you all. But don’t forget that I’m the biggest, most murderous thug here, right? And I need to think.” He dug the barrel of his pistol into Horowitz’s crotch. “You feel me, chum?” he asked, letting his gaze settle on Horowitz. When the man nodded, he stepped back and holstered his pistol. “Good, glad we got that cleared up.”

Horowitz backed away. “We still don’t know what we’re doing. The locals are going to be all over this place before we know it,” he said sourly.

“And we won’t be here when that happens.” Meltzer had made plans for just such an eventuality. There’d been no predicting when Cloud would wear out his welcome in Hong Kong, so he’d thought it best to be prepared. He let out a slow breath.

“Right, here’s what we do. Horowitz, Vasily, check out that airfield. Whoever was set up there has probably bugged out, but they might have left something behind. I’m betting that plane was heading to Tokyo, but I doubt that’s the final destination. Cloud hasn’t pissed off the Yakuza, to my knowledge.”

He clapped his hands together. “The rest of you know the drill. Start burning files—hell, burn the sheets. Burn everything. This place is going to be as busy as Grand Central Station at rush hour when people figure out what’s happened, and we don’t want anybody getting their hands on anything. We’re already in enough trouble. I’ll take care of Cloud’s office.” He paused. “Oh, and somebody get the tiger out of the kitchen, huh? We’ll drop it off at an animal sanctuary or the bus station or something. And get my phone while you’re in there. I have a few calls to make.”


### [5]

Sham Shui Po District, Kowloon Peninsula

The Executioner’s Hong Kong safehouse wasn’t very big, but then, Bolan had never required much space. He rented the apartment under an assumed identity provided for him by Aaron Kurtzman, Stony Man’s burly computer expert. Kurtzman had found the space in the gray market and rented it out through local brokers. The top-floor apartment had been made into Bolan’s safehouse. It contained only a military cot, a fridge full of cheap food bought from the large market on the corner of Ki Lung Street and, of course, an armory.

The latter wasn’t as well-stocked as Bolan ordinarily liked. It was built into the apartment’s closet and hidden behind a wealth of knock-off clothing bought from street vendors on Cheung Sha Wan Road. Bolan had constructed it himself, using the materials he’d had at hand to create a false back. Behind a section of loose paneling, he kept a spare set of gear—another set of fatigues, body armor and web gear, a UMP and ammunition and a backup pistol.

He’d left the airfield as soon as possible. Once Spence and Cloud were in the air, Bolan had figured that his part in the operation was done. He’d taken the truck and left it several blocks from the safehouse. Spence’s ground crew would take care of the bodies left behind and the helicopter, and then split, if the Agency was still following standard protocol. Someone in the chain of authority would smother any reports of gunfire, and the whole event would be buried under Bullshit Mountain, along with every other screwup.

And it had been a screwup. As he stripped out of his shredded body armor and damp fatigues, Bolan wondered whose mistake it was. Had Cloud’s helicopter been tracked to the airfield? Or had there been a leak somewhere further up the line? The truck must have been in transit not long after he’d caught Cloud, which meant that whoever had sent it was efficient, or they had reason to suspect where it was going. If it was the latter, then Spence’s operation was compromised and had been since the beginning.

In Bolan’s experience, that was true of most such operations. It was one of the many reasons he preferred to work alone; fewer moving parts meant fewer mistakes. Dressed now in his street clothes, he sat on the cot, swiftly dismantled both pistols and then dried and oiled them. They could survive a dunking, but proper weapon maintenance was paramount in the Executioner’s view.

Once he was finished, he would arrange for his departure. When Brognola’s call had come, Bolan was preparing for another mission—one of his own, rather than one for Stony Man. The target was a man named Gapon, an ex-KGB operative. Bolan had never come face-to-face with Gapon, but he’d seen the killer’s handiwork more than once. He had photos, a mug shot and files spread across the cot, and he flipped through them as he worked.

Gapon, like a lot of former KGB agents, had found new employment with the Russian mafia. He’d put his skills to use, doing terrible things for terrible people, and he was currently in Melbourne. It was possible that Gapon had contracted out to one of the many organized crime cartels based in Melbourne, such as the Carlton Crew or the Honoured Society, but for what reason, Bolan couldn’t tell.

He’d been happy enough to put that particular job on the back burner, for Brognola. Whatever Gapon was up to, he hadn’t looked as if he was going anywhere anytime soon. But now that Cloud was safely in Spence’s custody, Bolan could deal with Gapon.

Spence’s offer of a lift had been tempting, but Bolan preferred making his own way, where possible. Fewer screwups were likely if he handled his own transportation. Besides, Bolan wasn’t sure if he could have taken any more time in close confines with Cloud. With Gapon, he could kill the man and be done with it, rather than have to play nice. A smile spread across his face as he considered what the future held. At the very least, Gapon wouldn’t throw a tiger at him.

As he worked he listened to the noise drifting down from above. The roof of the tenement was home to a claustrophobic mass of concrete huts and shanties of wood and tin. The residents were mostly Nepalese, with a few Pakistani families in the mix. The tenement was noisy, even at night, but he didn’t mind. Though he was a solitary man by nature, Bolan liked the rush of life and the noise and the smells of food cooking. Occasionally he needed to remind himself why he fought.

Someone knocked on the door. Bolan tensed. He went to the closet and retrieved his spare Beretta, clipping the holster to his belt. He went to the door and opened it slightly. A young woman stood outside in the hall, looking nervous and fearful. She said something in rapid-fire Nepali but switched to English when Bolan shook his head.

“Come quick,” she said. “Mr. Regmi said to get you.”

Bolan nodded and stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. Regmi was one of his upstairs neighbors, a shrunken old man who grew a garden right over Bolan’s cot. Regmi had become obsessed with teaching Bolan how to play Mahjong on his infrequent visits to Hong Kong. His neighbor was a crook, as well, though what kind Bolan couldn’t say. He had strong connections to the local gray market and ostensibly sold electronics at a stall on Cheung Sha Wan Road. He was harmless enough, however, and he’d provided Bolan with important intelligence on more than one occasion. If you needed it, or needed to know about it, he could get it for you, no questions asked.

Bolan followed the girl upstairs and out onto the roof, where a crowd was starting to gather.

Four young men were crowded in front of Regmi’s shack, yelling at the old man in English. Bolan knew instantly what they were after—the unlucky inhabitants of these penthouse shanty towns were regularly victimized by gangs who sometimes, but not always, worked for the building owners. Residents were shaken down for money they rarely had, and evicted when they could no longer pay the exorbitant rents they were charged for living rough.

Bolan had sent more than one such group on their way on his previous visits to Hong Kong. He didn’t recognize these men from those earlier confrontations, but he could read their lean, hungry looks easily enough. Not enough food, not enough love, not enough anything, made wolves out of people, whatever their nationality.

Regmi stared up at them placidly as they shouted at him, his eyes bright and clear behind the scratched lenses of his glasses. He was a small man, and seemingly getting smaller as he got older, but he had a big voice and when he saw Bolan he boomed, “Ah, here is the man you should ask about that, my friends.”

The crowd parted around Bolan. Four heads swiveled toward him and Bolan said, “I think you gentlemen should leave.”

He sized them up quickly. They were young, but built hard, toughened by a life on the streets. No guns that he could see, but that didn’t mean they weren’t armed. They hadn’t expected trouble, however. He glanced at Regmi, who smiled genially.

“This is Mr. Ortega,” the old man said. “Mr. Ortega, these four young men wish to collect a second rent from the inhabitants of this building.”

“Well, that seems unfair,” Bolan said.

Regmi smiled. He was a wily old fox and Bolan suspected that he’d engineered this little showdown for his own amusement, as well as that of his neighbors.

“It is, is it not?” Regmi said. “But they will not be budged, I am afraid.”

“No?” Bolan locked eyes with the biggest of the men and said, “Perhaps we can negotiate.” The four traded glances, and Bolan sighed. They never wanted to negotiate.

The first punch was a wild one, a looping, undisciplined blow that Bolan easily batted aside. He replied with a stiff pop to the young man’s belly, folding him double. As the youth wheezed and bent forward, Bolan caught his head and propelled him into a cement wall, hard.

The second came in fast, a cheap knife in his hand. He slashed at Bolan and the Executioner caught the blade between his palms and twisted it out of its owner’s grip. As the youth backpedaled in shock, Bolan examined the knife and then sent it spinning into a wooden wall with a flick of his wrist.

The thug came at him in a rush, fists balled up. Bolan blocked one blow and then another before stabbing the stiffened fingers of his right hand into the youth’s throat. The young man sank, gagging. Bolan drove a knee into his skull and knocked him sprawling, even as the last two members of the quartet came at him in a rush.

Bolan spun to face them. He jerked out of the way of a punch and snagged the young man’s wrist, pulling him forward to drive a hard uppercut into his jaw. The youth sagged and Bolan shoved him into his friend, who stumbled back in surprise. His eyes widened comically as Bolan stepped toward him, and he released his friend and bolted for the stairs.

Bolan was tempted to pursue but restrained himself. The point had been made. He looked down at the three unconscious criminals and then at Mr. Regmi’s grinning face. The old man pushed aside the blanket he’d been huddling under to reveal a revolver.

“How long have you had that?” Bolan asked.

Regmi shrugged and set the weapon aside. It looked like an old Pryse Army revolver, which meant it was an antique. It seemed well cared for, at least.

“And why didn’t you use it?”

“I’ve only got four bullets,” Regmi said. “I did not want to waste them.” He patted the table in front of him as the crowd began to disperse. “Sit down. I owe you a rematch.” The Mahjong board had already been set up.

“Not tonight, I’m afraid,” Bolan said. “I have to leave in the morning.”

“Oh?” Regmi said slyly. “Well, at least you had time for a visit.”

Bolan smiled. “Would you like me to get rid of them?” he asked, gesturing to the three would-be extortionists. The air was damp with the hint of rain and Bolan looked up at the night sky where dark clouds were gathering strength.

Regmi waved a hand as he examined the Mahjong board in front of him. “No, lying in the rain will be a good lesson for them.” He looked up. “Are you sure I cannot tempt you to a game?”

“Sorry, Mr. Regmi,” Bolan said as he headed toward the stairs.

“You are a good neighbor, Mr. Ortega,” Regmi shouted after him.

When he got back to his room, Bolan heard the sound of his satellite phone. He answered it and the rough, rumbling voice of Hal Brognola filled his ear.

“Striker, are you busy?”

“Packing up to get out of country tomorrow, why?”

“We’ve got a problem. It looks like Spence never showed up in Tokyo.” Brognola hesitated. And then said, “We think the plane went down.”

“Went down? Where?” Bolan asked. He had a sick feeling in his gut.

“Striker, if I knew that, would I be calling?” Brognola snapped.

Bolan took no offense. He could hear the tension in Brognola’s voice, even through the static-laden sat link. Brognola occupied a twilight realm where “on the books” met off, and his job was as much political as it was organizational. There was no telling what sort of pressure he was under, and Bolan was just as happy not to know.

“Have you alerted Spence’s superiors?”

“They won’t be able to get a search operation organized until they wrangle permission from the Chinese, who aren’t happy about this, as you might guess. They want to know what we were doing and why. I doubt your safehouse is compromised, but you might want to catch a flight to Tokyo or Melbourne.”

It was rare that Brognola sounded so worried. Bolan couldn’t blame him. The plan had been a good one, but it appeared to have gone completely off the rails.

“Why don’t I head up the initial search effort? I can get a plane.”

“Striker, I can’t authorize that—you’re off the books and I want to keep it that way. That means we need you out of there. This situation is already shot to hell. It’s too unstable to…”

Bolan laughed mirthlessly. “To what? Throw some gasoline on the fire?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Brognola said.

“It’ll be off the books, Hal. I can get a pilot and a plane, but I’ll need the transponder code and their last coordinates. If I can find them, I’ll get them out.”

Brognola hesitated again. Bolan knew what his old ally was about to say, and he could tell Brognola didn’t want to say it. Bolan saved him the trouble. “Cloud’s the important one, I know. If it comes down to it…”

“You’ll do what you think is best, Striker. You always do.” Brognola paused. “Before we lost contact with him, Spence said there’d been trouble.”

“Someone tried to stop the plane,” Bolan said. “Given the situation, I figured it didn’t matter who they were.”

“Ops like this leak like sieves, you know that. And chances are, word about the plane vanishing has already spread. That means you might not be alone in your search. Think you can handle that?”

“Definitely,” Bolan said.

“If you wait, I can have Lyons and the others—”

“We don’t have time, Hal. I’m our best shot and you know it.” He sighed. “If I need help, I’ll call. You know that.”

“I know, Striker.” Brognola sounded tired. “Be careful. Call me back when you’re ready to go and I’ll have those coordinates for you.”

“Always am, and I will,” Bolan said and hung up. It looked as if his reckoning with Gapon was going to be postponed a little while longer.

He sat for a moment, the phone in his hand, considering his options. He couldn’t charter a flight legally—not without adding to the plethora of complications—which meant he had to find a pilot who didn’t mind working off the books. He also needed someone who knew the area, which narrowed his pool of candidates substantially. He knew a few pilots with those qualifications, but he didn’t have time to track them all down to see whether they were free. The longer he went without finding Spence’s plane, the less likely it was he’d ever find it, if it had crashed. There was a lot of ocean between Hong Kong and Tokyo.

He tossed the phone onto the bed. That was the question, however. Had the plane crashed? Or had it gone off course and, if so, why? It was a mystery, and Bolan hated mysteries.

His job right now was to find a pilot, and quick. And he knew just the man who could help him.

With a sigh, Bolan left his apartment and went back upstairs. The three thugs were gone and the rain was coming down steadily, pooling ankle-deep on the roof. Mr. Regmi was still at his table, examining his Mahjong board. He looked up as Bolan sat across from him.

“I might have time for a game, after all,” Bolan said.