The Executioner 197 - Armed Force

236 Pages·2016·0.74 MB·English

by  Pendleton Don

Don Pendleton - 197 - Armed Force
PROLOGUE

Memphis, Tennessee

She stood in the shadows as she waited, dressed in soft corduroy slacks that were
shoved into low-cut boots of matching black, and a teal-colored blouse under a
black cotton vest. Her cropped auburn hair dropped into the collar of the fringed
black leather jacket cut Western-style, which blocked the hint of a chill wind that
blew in from the street. The deep purse slung over her right shoulder held the
reassuring weight of a Glock 17.

The predators watched her from a lamppost half a block down the street. Their
silhouettes cut into the soft neon glow of the run-down motel behind them.

The three young men all wore similar clothing: jeans, Tshirts and motorcycle
jackets crisscrossed with the silvered sheen of zippers. They moved their feet,
and the clack of their roller-blade wheels striking the sidewalk reached her ears.

Only their hairstyles reflected any hint at individualism. The guy in the blue
mohawk watched her intently. The second guy had a habit of flicking a lighter
nervously, and the subdued radiance from the motel made his shaved head
resemble a skull full of infection. The third guy, with a blond mane that reached
to his shoulders, was obviously the leader.

The woman took her cue from him. Her senses were razor sharp. She realized,
almost as an afterthought, that she might have run them in on general principles
because they were a felony waiting to happen. Then she wondered what she
would have run them into. Quickly she stopped the line of thinking. She'd
would have run them into. Quickly she stopped the line of thinking. She'd
learned over the past few years that introspection like that would lead only to
blinding headaches that would leave her bedridden at least for the next day. If
she was still in the city come morning, she didn't want to miss work.

The job at the radio station kept her cover in place.

She wished her contact would hurry. A glance at her watch told her he was
already seventeen minutes late for the meet. If she'd had any input in the matter,
she knew she would have already moved on.

Headlights crested the gentle rise at the end of the street. Instinctively she
touched the key case hanging outside her purse that had the Vietnamese beer cap
mounted on it. The key case was a source of comfort, though her car was parked
seven blocks away.

The police markings on the driver's door turned incandescent amber as they
caught the reflected light. The patrol car slowed, its brake lights flaring crimson
for an instant.

The three predators tensed, their eyes locked on the police vehicle.

She shrank farther into the shadows and watched in grim anticipation. She felt
the policeman hadn't seen her and was interested only in the three youths.

An instant later the lights winked out and the police car sped up again.
Apparently the close brush with law enforcement pushed the predators into a
decision. They shoved away from the pole, their feet gliding across the uneven
decision. They shoved away from the pole, their feet gliding across the uneven
pavement.

She thought about the Glock 17 in her purse but rejected it until the pistol was
necessary. There was no doubt they'd targeted her. Hard-edged moonlight
gleamed in two fists, and she guessed they held knives to cut the shoulder strap
of her purse.

Adrenaline surged through her as she squared off with them silently and stepped
away from the building. For a moment she thought she heard a warning voice
from deep inside her head. She ignored it. Her head was full of voices
sometimes, and some of them never made any sense.

The predators were ten feet away and closing.

"Drop the purse, bitch," the guy with the blue mohawk ordered. "You don't have
to get hurt tonight." Without saying anything, she reached into a nearby concrete
planter and scooped out a double handful of white limestone rock. She slung it
haphazardly on the sidewalk before her and listened to the sudden chorus of
curses and yelps as the predators realized the danger that had been laid in front
of them.

The guy with the blue mohawk jerked and twisted like a mannequin dangling
from the strings of an inexperienced puppeteer. Seeing her opportunity, the
woman reached for the man and caught him in a hip throw.

Pulling with all her strength, she yanked him airborne and hurled him at the
plate-glass window fronting the building.
The glass broke in huge shards as the skater went through it with a frightened
scream.

As she whirled away from the guy with the shaved head, she was aware of the
knife blade clicking against her dangling hooped earring. She met the third man
with a knee to the groin that drained all motor control from him in a heartbeat.
Her hands came up defensively as her second victim dropped into a fetal curl a
few feet away.

"Now you're going to get it, bitch!" the surviving predator promised. He stuck
out a hand and went around the nearby light pole with an easy grace, the knife in
front of him in a clenched fist.

She didn't wonder about her martial-arts skills as she confronted her attacker.
Even though she couldn't remember specifically when, she knew she'd been
surprised like this before. Reacting smoothly, she captured and controlled the
knife hand as it licked out at her, then twisted and turned, flipping her assailant
from his feet to land with a meaty thud on his back on the sidewalk. His breath
whooshed out of him in an explosive gasp.

Regaining her feet, she hurried away from the scene. Out of her peripheral
vision, she saw a dark green Lexus glide to a halt at the curb.

The passenger door popped open, but the interior light didn't come on.

"Orchid," the man behind the steering wheel called, "get in the car." Recognizing
the code word, she sprinted for the vehicle, covering the distance in four long
the code word, she sprinted for the vehicle, covering the distance in four long
strides.

She clambered inside and slammed the door.

The Lexus powered away from the curb. The man was intent on the rearview
mirror. He was of medium height, with the broad shoulders and slim waist of a
gymnast. "You were supposed to keep a low profile," he admonished as he took
the first right turn he came to.

Still thrumming with adrenaline, she hugged herself and touched the key case,
her thumb caressing the beer cap. At least a half dozen voices seemed to be
clamoring for attention inside her skull. "Maybe we should have met in a better
neighborhood." The man glanced at her. "Are you all right?" "For someone who
was nearly killed," she said sarcastically, "I think I'm doing damn fine." Inside
her mind, the voices were reaching fever pitch and she almost recognized some
of them.

He checked the street, then looked back at her. "You don't look all right." She
closed her eyes and shook her head.

"I'll be fine." "Yeah." He didn't sound like he cared. Then, in a rougher voice, he
said, "John Philip Sousa plays kazoo." It felt as if a whirlpool opened up in her
mind, a liquid vacuum that sucked all the voices away in a vortex of frightened
passion. A door slammed shut. Only confidence and responsibility remained.
She traced the surface of the key case again, lovingly. "There's an assignment?"
she asked in a whisper.

"Yeah." The man retrieved a letter-size manila envelope from above the sun
visor. "Guy named Harold Brognola down in Miami.
visor. "Guy named Harold Brognola down in Miami.

Pictures are inside. He's a Justice Department agent heading up a special crime
task force." "My assignment?" "Put him on a slab," the man replied.

The Huntsman opened the envelope and glanced through the pictures inside.
They'd been shot through a telephoto lens that blurred out the details behind the
man but left the target showing in extreme clarity.

"How soon?" the Huntsman asked, his personality filling up the vessel that had
been the woman.

"You're on your way to the airport now. The sooner Brognola's dead, the sooner
we all sleep better." The Huntsman tossed the envelope of pictures onto the dash
and relaxed. He had his target firmly in mind now, and his skills made him as
sure as the tracking system of a Tomahawk missile. Even if Brognola or his
people killed him, he'd only be reborn. He laughed, and didn't even think it odd
that the emotion came out in a woman's voice.

"Drop site's coming up in four minutes." Mack Bolan adjusted the harness
strapped across his chest a final time, then stepped forward and hooked up to the
night-black hang glider spread like a falcon's shadow across the cargo plane's
interior. He thumbed the transmit button on his ear-throat headset. "We're ready,
Jack." "Roger." Jack Grimaldi was Stony Man Farm's chief wingman and had
been cycled into the present operation with Bolan. "Satellite uplink shows we're
all on target. Phoenix One has radioed that his ground control unit is in place and
the exfiltration has been set up." Bolan tested the hang glider's control bar,
refamiliarizing himself with the feel of the aerial craft. "Affirmative. We jump
on your go." The aluminum-and-cable frame felt heavy and solid, reassuring
when he considered what he was about to do. He glanced at David McCarter,
standing next in line.
standing next in line.

The fox-faced Briton was ex-SAS and used to daring maneuvers. An
accomplished pilot himself, he'd found a second home in the sky. The hang
glider seemed to pose no problems for him.

Both Stony Man warriors were outfitted in blacksuits, their faces and hands
masked by combat cosmetics. The Executioner carried the Beretta 93-R in
shoulder leather and the heavy Israeli Desert Eagle.44 Magnum on his hip.

A cut-down Ithaca Model 37 12gauge shotgun rode in a specially designed
quick-release holster that ran from his right knee to his ankle. Extra magazines
for the pistols and various other incendiaries were clipped to his combat harness,
and a bandolier across his chest held extra shotgun rounds.

McCarter sported twin Browning Hi-Powers at shoulder and hip, and an HandK
MP-5 SD-3 in a jackass sling across his back. He took a final puff from the
cigarette he'd been smoking, then dropped it to the metal flooring of the cargo
plane and crushed it underfoot.

"One minute," Grimaldi called out.

Bolan moved toward the rear of the plane as the aft hatch started to open with a
grinding of gears. The metal halves parted to reveal a night sky holding only a
fi/l of bright stars, and the shadowy mountainous terrain thousands of feet below.
Slitting his eyes against the wind, he leaned against the scarecrow frame of the
heavy-duty motorized winch mounted beside the cargo door. With effort, he
could make out the twin silver streams that were the railroad tracks they'd
vectored in on. The spur line snaked into the foothills of the Abruzzi Apennines.