Murder Island

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.

6

Tai Kok Tsui, Kowloon Peninsula

Music spilled out into the wet night as Bolan entered the bar. The Beretta was a comforting weight, hidden beneath his coat, but even so, he remained wary. He was carrying a heavy duffel bag, packed with his gear and enough untraceable cash to tempt even the most honest man.

The bar was crowded and the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the tang of spilled alcohol. In the background, multiple televisions showed sports, newscasts and music videos, the noise of each merging into a single dull pulse. Hopefully, his stay wouldn’t be long.

Mr. Regmi had been only too happy to divulge the whereabouts of Bolan’s first choice of possible pilots, and all for the price of a game. Bolan had lost, as always, though not for lack of trying. Regmi was a terrible teacher. Or maybe he simply liked winning. But he’d told Bolan where to find McQueen.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.