Outback Assault

Bullets punched into the wall, noise and fury rocking through the quiet calm of the apartment, but the gun battle’s thunder was swallowed by Augustyn’s nearly obsessive privacy measures. The Executioner waited a moment, but he didn’t hear his enemy reload, and he knew that Augustyn had fallen back to flank him. Bolan turned and cut back toward the entrance to the apartment.

He was taking a chance, leaving Eugene at Augustyn’s mercy, but as disposable as Bolan had assumed the manager was, the assassin would be loathe to get rid of a good asset just because the Executioner had dropped in on their little setup. If it appeared that Bolan was getting a decisive advantage, Augustyn might fall back and make the effort to take out the older man, but for now, the cocky killer assumed that on his own turf, he was unbeatable.

As Bolan entered the living room, he caught a glimpse of the tall, black-haired assassin and dived to the carpet as the rattle of a machine pistol cut through the air. Parabellum shockers snapped into the wall he’d been standing in front of only a brief moment before. Bolan returned fire, emptying the Norinco and pulling the suppressed Walther to keep up the heat until he reached the cover of the alcove. The Executioner’s withering fire sent Augustyn packing into retreat, his autofire only resulting in damaged walls and shattered picture frames.

Bolan swiftly reloaded, shielded by Augustyn’s sofa, but he realized his enemy had accessed a heavier supply of weapons. He’d been outgunned before, so it wasn’t worth considering. Instead, he focused on what he could control. He looked into the kitchen, but a small mirror had been smashed, obscuring its ability to betray Augustyn’s presence.

That was good news. Bolan’s discovery of Augustyn’s corner views meant that the assassin was destroying his own means of detecting the Executioner’s pursuit. It was a two-edged sword, and Bolan wasn’t going to rush headlong into the kitchen in case Augustyn was laying in wait. Without grenades to clear the rooms of the penthouse, Bolan was going to have to take things slow and steady, using his senses to their utmost.

Just as he made this realization, the Executioner heard the familiar sound of the bounce of a grenade hitting carpet. Bolan tucked down and cut loose with a loud roar, instants before the living room’s atmosphere split apart in a peal of catastrophic noise. The shout saved his eardrums from the effect of the stun-shock grenade, and the bulk of the sofa protected him from the blazing glare of the mini-bomb’s flash powder and shock wave. He pushed to his feet, already knowing what was coming next and he spotted Augustyn as a blur through the kitchen doorway, wielding a pair of long-bladed knives.

Bolan fired the Norinco, but the assassin was moving too quickly for a direct center mass shot. A .45-caliber slug sliced through Augustyn’s side, slowing him and throwing off his pace. One of the nine-inch blades lashed down and rang violently against the slide of Bolan’s .45, knocking it from his hands. Only the steel of the pistol had prevented Bolan’s finger from being severed by the vicious slash, and he lunged in before the killer could follow up with the second knife. His shoulder-block took Augustyn in the breastbone and knocked him off balance, blowing breath from his lungs. Bolan wanted to unsnarl his Walther from where he’d pinned it between his opponent’s torso and himself, but with the glare of knife blades in his peripheral vision, he took the path of least resistance, hooking his emptied hand around and catching Augustyn over his ear.

The blow was meant to stop the assassin cold, but the savvy killer had seen it coming and tilted to one side, reducing the force from fatal to merely mind-reeling. The tip of one of the butcher knives flicked out and took Bolan across the bicep, a shallow cut, but one that forced the Executioner into a momentary retreat. Reflex had pulled him out of position for a shot with the Walther.

Bolan pulled the trigger anyway, the .32-caliber bullet exploding against the carpet next to Augustyn’s head and distracted him enough so that the kick the assassin had been intending to launch missed shattering Bolan’s jaw by mere millimeters. Another tug of the Walther’s trigger elicited a grunt of pain, but it was answered by a second kick that took Bolan in the gut, staggering him backward.

Augustyn lunged, reaching for Bolan’s fallen .45, but the Walther spoke again, a bullet chopping the frame of the Norinco and spinning it out of Augustyn’s grasp.

“Son of a bitch!” Augustyn snarled. The knife whipped out of his hand as he threw it, the blade whirring so close it gouged a narrow furrow in Bolan’s shoulder. He struggled to reach the .45, but Bolan lunged for the killer as he dived again for the big pistol. Their bodies crashed like great rams, paused in the air as the forces of their momentum struggled to overcome each other and then gravity pulled them to the floor.

Augustyn wrapped the fingers of one powerful hand around Bolan’s throat, the grasp strong enough that the soldier felt the air cut off from his lungs, fingertips pressing against his carotid artery to deny his brain fresh blood. Bolan clamped one hand over Augustyn’s bicep and punched hard into the assassin’s elbow. Bone cracked like a gunshot, eliciting a wail of agony. The lethal pressure crushing his throat was gone, and Bolan saw that the hired killer’s opposite shoulder had been wounded by the Walther, keeping Augustyn from using it to throttle Bolan. It was a small mercy that had saved Bolan’s life.

The Executioner rammed a hard knee into Augustyn’s breastbone, ejecting the breath from the man’s lungs. He knuckle-punched the Hong Kong hit man in the Adam’s apple and the assassin’s eyes bulged as his throat collapsed under the brutal strike. His tongue lolled from his mouth and his wounded arm reached up to grab hold of Bolan’s jacket. A second jutting-knuckle strike spiked between Augustyn’s eyes, bone shattering under the force of the blow. The hit man fell limp with a full-body shudder.

Bolan cradled his aching knuckles. The blows had done their job, saving his life and ending that of a triad-hired murderer.

He staggered to his feet, retrieved the Norinco .45 and went to look for Eugene.

The Executioner had travel arrangements to make to meet with Augustyn’s former employers.

2

Eugene Waylon’s eyes fluttered open, and he felt the blood settling in his head. A cool breeze brushed through his hair, and as his vision focused, he could see Hong Kong’s skyline. But it didn’t quite look right. As his consciousness grew stronger, he realized that it was upside down. A grip like a vise held on to both ankles, and suddenly he slipped, dropping a foot. He looked around and saw the streets below, a blaze of garish neon ready to suck him down.

“Glad you could join me again,” a grim and harsh voice said. Waylon tried to speak, but his throat had constricted in fear. His glasses slipped off his face and tumbled away, spiraling into the distance below. The businessman could feel his skin contracting all over his body, his stomach churning. Bile crept into the back of his throat.

“You don’t need to know my name. You just need to know I exist.” The voice cut into his terror. Waylon looked up to see the man’s face. He looked as if he could have been Wade Augustyn’s brother, except his blue eyes were even more chilling and penetrating.

“What do you want?” Waylon croaked, the sourness of his bile burning like a cloud of napalm through his mouth.

“The man you fronted for is dead,” the Executioner said. “I’ll be taking his place for a while, and when I’m done, I want you to fold up his operation and throw it away.”

“What operation?”

Bolan released one of Waylon’s ankles, which elicited a bleat of fear from him. He could see the arm still holding his ankle was wrapped in a bandage around the biceps. The businessman was able to see the raw power in Bolan’s arms, but a smear of red grew in the center of the bandage.

“You can either quit playing stupid, or you can see how long I can hold you up with an injured arm,” Bolan said.

“Wait! Wait!” Waylon howled. “Don’t drop me!”

“Keep talking, Eugene,” Bolan said.

“All right, I’ll make Augustyn’s assassination operation disappear,” Waylon conceded. “Just don’t let go.”

Bolan took hold of Waylon’s other ankle. “Before making it disappear, e-mail all the details to the address I wrote down on your computer desk. All of his contacts, everyone who supplied him, everyone who contracted him.”

Waylon nodded. “Yes.”

“Which triad was Augustyn working for?” Bolan asked.

“The Black Rose,” Waylon answered.

Bolan knew the organization. They were a particularly aggressive and brutal group, given to bouts of violent infighting. “If I hear you’ve set yourself up as someone else’s front man, I’ll make you wish I dropped you off this roof,” Bolan told him. “I’l be watching your every move.”

“Yes, sir,” Waylon said.

“But first, tell me who Augustyn would use as his supplier for an operation in Darwin, Australia,” Bolan ordered.

Waylon looked up. “He’d kill me if I gave him up.”

Bolan pulled Waylon up farther. Eye-level with the balcony, he could see Augustyn’s corpse. “You really think he’ll ever take a shot at you?” Bolan asked.

“N-no, sir,” Waylon stammered.

“Your choice. Spill your guts, or I spill you into the street and take everything apart the hard way,” Bolan said.

Waylon began to talk. He was grateful to be dragged onto the balcony and thrown atop Augustyn’s clammy, pulped form, despite the splatter of blood from the assassin’s caved-in face that spurted over his clothes. He dragged himself away from the corpse and looked to Bolan, who had a laptop sitting on the table.

“What’s that for?” Waylon asked.

“Paying your debt to society,” Bolan informed him.

“Listen, I was just Augustyn’s business manager. I never pulled a trigger!” Waylon said.

“I know. You’re still covered in stains from your blood money, however,” Bolan replied. “Get to work.”

Waylon sat behind the keyboard and saw the screen contained Augustyn’s private, Cayman Island bank accounts. “What do I do?”

“Empty them,” Bolan said.

“But, how will I live?” Waylon asked.

The Executioner lifted his Norinco .45. “Without a hole in one side of your skull and a grapefruit-sized excavation cavity on the other.”

“Okay,” Waylon answered.

“You’re in charge of that killer’s legitimate business holdings. Manage them well, and make your money. Continue his role as philanthropist and run his companies well,” Bolan continued. “If your businesses fail and people suffer and go out of work, I’ll be back.”

Waylon nodded.

“Open these accounts and transmit to this array,” Bolan told him, putting down a piece of paper. “Empty the coffers.”

Waylon glanced at Augustyn’s fortune. Hundreds of millions of dollars in several accounts were going to be transferred to the set of banks Bolan had put before him. He looked questioningly toward the Executioner. “This was a robbery?”

“This was eliminating pure evil,” Bolan stated. “However, his blood money will be put to use for some good.”

“In your pocket?” Waylon asked.

Bolan shook his head no, disdain for the thought registering in a hard, chilling glare. The money from assets acquired while Bolan was on missions would have made Bolan one of the richest men in the world. But Bolan had no interest in such things. The money would be used by Stony Man Farm to fund future missions.

Waylon finished transferring Augustyn’s funds. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Bolan asked.

“For assuming that money was your motivation,” Waylon stated, obviously trying to get back on Bolan’s good side.

The Executioner shook his head.

“It wasn’t Augustyn’s, either,” Waylon continued. “He did it for the thrill.”

“That’s not my goal, either,” Bolan warned. “Don’t think too hard about it, Eugene. This is the end of your old life. Now’s your chance to be a saint and wash the grime off your soul.”

The businessman nodded and watched as the big black .45 went into Bolan’s hip holster.

“Grow old gracefully, Eugene,” Bolan said. “And you’ll never see me again.”

With that, the Executioner left the lavish penthouse, just as the sun cracked the skyline.

BOLAN TOOK THE TIME to dispose of the guns in Augustyn’s apartment. He didn’t want anyone in the Hong Kong underworld to get hold of the assassin’s rather impressive firepower. He had gone to an auto yard and hidden the submachine guns, rifles and handguns he’d stolen from the triad assassin inside the trunk of a car on the pile to be crushed and compressed into a cube of scrap metal. He would have liked to have set some of the arsenal aside for himself, including the new .338 Lapua Magnum-chambered Barrett rifle. The big gun was a state-of-the-art antipersonnel weapon that would give a marksman a reach of a mile.

He’d have to find something in Darwin from Augustyn’s supplier.

Bolan waited an hour, and as soon as the magnet dropped the arsenal-packed junk mobile into the compressor, he left. He could hear the grinding of metal into a fused, crushed block. He got into his rental car and drove to the airport, where the electronic ticket would ferry him to Darwin, Australia.

He pulled his phone from his pocket in response to its subtle thrumming vibration, and flipped it open to hear Barbara Price, Stony Man’s mission controller, on the other end.

“You’re not coming home?” Price asked.

“I’ve got some unexpected business. I’ll be extending my trip,” Bolan answered.

“Striker, we’ve got a few operations waiting on the back burner here at home,” Price told him. “You’re not even certain what Augustyn had been hired for.”

“He was hired to be an exterminator. And these aren’t vermin he’d been called in on, these are human beings,” Bolan explained. “If they’re people I normally would have targeted, then good. I’ll do the job, and then take out Augustyn’s paymasters.”

“And if they’re citizens in the way of the triads?” Price asked.

“Then I just burn down the gangsters,” Bolan stated. “I’ll come home even faster.”

“Be careful down there, Striker,” Price said.

“I’ll take care of things and keep you posted,” Bolan replied, hanging up.

Bolan considered the situation. No one in Darwin would be prepared for an all-out power play by the triads, and no naval blockade or aircraft carrier offshore could calm this conflict.

It required the Executioner’s touch of cleansing fire.

BOBBY YEUNG STEPPED OUT of the back of the Ford Explorer once his bodyguards had determined that the area for the next five hundred yards was empty of human habitation except for the police and fire officers looking at the burned-out ranch house. The sheriff, Ansen Crown, noticed him and walked over.

“What’s the story?” Yeung asked as Crown approached him.

The sheriff looked around, then shook his head. “Arson. No bodies found.”

Yeung nodded. He restrained his frustration as he realized that the rednecks he’d hired had been sloppy. Obwe “Grandfather” Wangara was one of the last men alive among the tribes with the determination to expose the Black Rose Triad’s operations in their territories.

“You heard about the girl boarding the bus to Alice Springs, right?” Crown asked.

Yeung nodded. Wangara’s granddaughter, Arana, was missing from the ashes of the fire. A lone, eighteen-year-old Aboriginal girl would be hard to find in the outback. If she reached any authorities Yeung’s triad had not paid off, there would be difficulties.

Killing native people in a remote location of Australia was one thing. Dealing with government officials in the open would be another. Yeung wished that the Black Rose Triad’s assassin would respond and pick up his electronic ticket. While he was irate with the men he’d hired locally, he knew that the triad assassin was trustworthy. The man had been a powerful, secret asset. His very appearance turned attention away from the organization he worked for, as the triads were notoriously loathe to use non-Chinese in their employ.

“Just make certain that no one raises a stink about the old man’s home burning. If possible, report him dead,” Yeung stated.

“I’ve got everything hushed up,” Crown answered. “But without a body—”

Yeung interrupted, holding his frustration in check. “Do what you can. I’ve got a troubleshooter coming in to help out with this.”

“I can pass most of this off on bigots getting drunk and riled, but an organized assassin…” Crown began.

“If you had done your job the way I wanted you to, none of this would have been necessary. Since you couldn’t evict these people, just be glad I need a mouthpiece among local law enforcement. Otherwise, we’d be using your bones as that old man,” Yeung snapped. “Got that?”

Crown clenched his jaw but nodded in quiet agreement.

“Don’t fuck with me. I know where you live,” Yeung snarled. He turned and got back in his SUV. His cell phone warbled and he plucked it from his pocket.

“Bobby, our man picked up his ticket and boarded his flight.” The call was from Frankie Law, his right-hand man. “Our troubles are over.”

“I’d like to think so, Frankie,” Yeung replied. “But the situation’s just gotten a little more complicated. The Abos who were straining at the leash finally slipped out of sight. At least one of them is on the way to civilization.”

“I’ll get our boys on the street. What’s the description?” Law asked.

“Five feet, black, about eighteen. Fairly cute for a little black girl,” Yeung stated.

“Damn, not the chick,” Law said.

“You’ve got a problem with that?” Yeung inquired.

“I just wanted a little taste. She was nicer than you let on,” Law replied.

“Find her and kill her when you’re done,” Yeung ordered. “These fuckers have given me enough headaches. “Just find the little bitch and deliver her head to me. Keep the rest for whatever you want.”

“Kinky.” Law chuckled.

“Dammit, Frankie!” Yeung said. It was too late. His head man in Darwin had hung up.

Yeung put the phone away, looking out the window.

When he’d been asked to set up a major transportation hub and processing center for the triad’s heroin pipeline, Yeung had jumped at the chance. It would be his ticket to the top of the heap in Hong Kong. Now, a year later, he was sick of the outback, sick of the Aborigines and the ugly, inbred whites with their mush-mouthed butchering of the English language, and he was sick of being stuck on the ass of the planet. He was a city boy. He wanted to be back among skyscrapers and neon lights and bodies packed together like sardines, with loud music, cigarette smoke and perfumed whores jammed in around him, pawing over his senses.

The facility was operating at half capacity, but once it was running at full power, he’d be called back to Hong Kong to be given an opportunity to rise up the ladder.

All it would take would be a few more dead Aborigines, and he would have the facility operating with impunity.

He was glad that the triad’s assassin was coming to fix it all.

3

Bolan got off the plane, eyes sharp for the presence of any members of the Black Rose Triad who would be at the airport to greet him. If they knew Wade Augustyn by sight, they would know something was wrong. His carry-on was only loaded with clothes. He’d be unarmed in the face of a mobster offensive. Under other circumstances that wouldn’t be a problem, but in an airport full of civilians, any delay in neutralizing armed opposition would increase the risk of bystanders being gunned down.

Since no Chinese gunmen popped out of the woodwork, Berettas blazing, Bolan felt secure going to the public lockers. He felt under the one he’d been directed to in the attachment to the e-mail containing the electronic ticket he’d ridden in on. The key was taped under a metal lip, and he plucked it free. Inside the locker were two envelopes. One was a large manila, stuffed with what looked like a file. The other was a smaller padded envelope containing a cellular phone. Bolan tucked the file into his carry-on and retrieved the phone. He hit the speed dial.

“Finally made it,” came the voice on the other end.

“I was just getting back from other business,” Bolan said, imitating Augustyn’s voice.

When Bobby Yeung spoke again, he gave no indication of noting any difference. “Say no more. How long will it take for you to get equipped for your safari?”

“Give me till dusk to get what I need,” Bolan said.

“Good. We’ve got a situation. We might need you prowling in Darwin first. I’ve got my people out and about, but…”

Bolan walked over to a table in the concourse food court and took a seat. He pulled out the file and set it before him, opening it. “There’s a picture of them in my file?”

“Naturally,” the Black Rose man said.

“Which one?” Bolan asked.

“The girl. She escaped, and we need to put her down fast.”

“You can’t find her?” Bolan pressed. He looked at the young woman. She was pretty, with big beautiful brown eyes. The name scrawled in the margin of the photo was Arana Wangara. It was right next to a photograph of an older man labeled Grandfather Wangara. In red marker, across Grandfather’s face, was written Troublemaker.

“She disappeared in Alice Springs. We had hoped to catch up with her, but—”

“But they didn’t think that she could blend in with a crowd because she was just an Abo, right?”

The Chinese mobster chuckled. Bolan’s derision of his people’s bigoted arrogance wasn’t lost on him. “It wasn’t my people. We’d had a couple of thick-headed whites doing the legwork. I’ll have some real talent searching the bus stations in Darwin—including you.”

“If you’ve got your act together, what do you need me for?” Bolan asked.

“Because I’m still stuck in the middle of absolute nowhere. And I need someone smart making sure this little chickie is put down,” the triad spokesman said.

“I don’t do bus station detail,” Bolan replied. “Even in Australia, there’s too much of a urine smell.”

“How about you roll up a few thousand yen and stick them up your damn nose to filter out the piss-stink?” the Chinese bartered.

“A few thousand yen’s pocket change,” Bolan countered.

“Dollars?” the gangster offered.

“Pounds sterling,” Bolan said.

“You’re killin’ me!” Yeung exclaimed.

“You should be so important,” Bolan warned. “Come to think of it, why are we killing a young woman?”

“Because she’s a liability,” the mobster explained, sounding as if he were talking to a child.

“Well, if you want me to bust my ass for a week hunting down Grandpa Abo, you’re paying by the day,” Bolan reminded him. “Frankly, I’d rather make my job easier.”

The Chinese man hissed in frustration. “Can you get this kind of information out of the girl?”

“Only if she stays alive,” Bolan admonished. “And stays healthy.”

“Healthy,” the mob boss repeated.

“As in untouched. If she goes catatonic because some of your boys took a piece, my work is going to be a lot harder. And they personally won’t like me when I have to work harder,” Bolan growled. “Got it?”

“You kill my men—”

“What? You called me in because you couldn’t handle this. What makes you think you can handle me?” Bolan asked. “Because if you can handle me, some old man shouldn’t be the top page of your hit list.”

“That’s because they say he’s one of their shaman…whatevers. He walks in the Dreamtime or some such. Keeping up with him is impossible,” Yeung answered.

“You called me in to exterminate fifteen unarmed Aboriginal activists,” Bolan said.

“They’re not Chinese. What do we care?”

“You got me. As long as I get my cash,” Bolan replied.

“I’ll get a message to my boys,” Bobby Yeung replied. “You’ll get your bonus for catching the girl.”