Serpent's Lair. Don Pendleton
the mountain and was three-quarters of the way to the meeting site when he slowed and evaluated his gear. The Walther P-38 K was accompanied by four magazines and a cylindrical tube. Having a sound suppressor for the little handgun would give him an element of surprise, and if he couldn’t have audacity and superior firepower, he’d take stealth and deception on his side.
He quickly screwed the attachment into place and stalked slowly through the increasingly thick foliage. By the time he was in sight of the clearing, he saw Hogan’s lead car arriving.
Bolan also spotted a Yakuza gunman hunkered down behind a tree trunk with a bolt-action hunting rifle. The Executioner knew it wasn’t as clear-cut as a trap. Not with the kind of deal that Anthony wanted to make with the mobsters.
The sniper seemed oblivious to anything around him. Bolan knew from experience that good snipers were stealthy and could sneak in close to the enemy, but they needed a spotter, not only to confirm kills and record other intelligence, but to perform escort duty for the shooter.
Bolan was never ashamed to have someone watching his back as a sniper. But it seemed that the Yakuza gunman hadn’t been given such backup.
The Executioner stayed his hand. He scanned the shrubbery, looking for other hidden forms. He stopped counting when he reached five men, all armed with hunting rifles or long-barreled revolvers with hunting scopes. He couldn’t see more than the quintet present, but that was enough for him to realize that the mobsters were expecting the mercenaries to cause some trouble. The high-powered weaponry postioned at the tree line was enough to cut through even the best of body armor at that relatively short range. Firing from ambush, these five, and any others hidden at angles around the clearing, could make Hogan’s mercenaries honest.
The convoy rolled to a stop as Bolan looked at the main Yakuza vehicle, a white stretch limousine parked near a small, overgrown path leading back up the mountain.
The door to the limousine opened slightly, and Bolan caught sight of a young woman’s face, pale with lack of sunlight, the dark rings around her eyes highlighted by days’ old makeup. Light reflected off the two metal hoops that pierced her lip. It was Rebecca Anthony, or Viscious Honey as she apparently liked to be known.
Bolan looked at the gunmen with their backs to him. He could see that the girl was looking for a distraction, and probably didn’t have a clue about the armed men at the tree line who could cut her down if she tried to make a run for it. He lined up the sights of the Walther, knowing that even with a suppressor, the 9 mm bullet’s flight through the trees would bounce enough supersonic echoes to make it known that he was on the scene.
He’d be giving up his advantage.
But he’d be protecting a young life.
Despite the mission to destroy the Yakuza boss, he still had a duty to protect the helpless.
MACHIDA OPENED HIS JACKET and drew a Beretta from his shoulder holster, taking a deep breath as Hogan and his men got out of the van. They approached slowly and were not subtle about their body armor and automatic weaponry. He counted them and was pleased to see that there were fifteen. Perhaps they wouldn’t be foolish enough to initiate violence knowing they were outnumbered.
“Where’s the girl?” Hogan called out.
“She’s in the limousine. I have sharpshooters in hiding too,” Machida replied quickly.
Hogan paused in his journey to meet Machida halfway. “Sharpshooters? What for?”
“To make certain you behave.”
Hogan smirked.
“You come to take the girl. You will have the girl,” Machida explained. “However, we will have what we need, and we will go home happy as well.”
Machida watched as Hogan leaned toward one of his men.
“Oh, it’s never soft and easy, huh?” Hogan whispered. “Okay, bring out the girl, and we’ll give you the goods,” Hogan said loudly.
The sound a walking stick disturbing the gravel path broke off the dialogue.
BOLAN LOOKED TO HIS LEFT, to the overgrown path. A gaunt man wearing old-fashioned robes was tapping a seven-foot-tall walking staff as he made his way among the rocks and weeds. His wooden sandals swept aside stones and gravel with each step. From the length of his hair and beard, he seemed to be ancient. Bolan was torn between shouting for the old man to turn back and opening fire on the marksmen in the tree line.
He glanced down and saw that even the Yakuza men were looking among themselves. They, too, wanted to say something, and one of the gunners even waved at the walker on the path. Bolan knew enough Japanese to understand the hissed “Go back!” command.
The walker stopped, gazing glassily over to the tree line, scanning it as if to catalog the men hidden among the bushes and grasses.
Bolan held his fire as the limousine door was flung open in a sudden flash of movement.
Rebecca Anthony was running for her life into the middle of a hellzone.
HOGAN SHOUTED AS HE SAW the girl break from the limousine. “She’s getting away!”
Nickles ran toward the trees, making it three steps before a single gunshot into the sky brought everyone up short. Honey paused, halfway to the tree line, her feet already bleeding from cuts where the gravel of the clearing dug and jabbed into the soles of her bare feet. She was suddenly rethinking the preference of being shot in the back. She took a deep breath, then started whimpering as she glanced between Machida, Hogan and the stranger who was coming down the path.
“I’m not going to let you get away, Rebecca,” Machida called out. “Everyone stays where they are.”
The old man continued walking toward the tableau.
Machida switched to Japanese. “I told you, old man, stand still.”
Hogan looked at the walker’s eyes. They were glazed and unfocused, hard black marbles that looked everywhere and nowhere at once. It was an odd, disconcerting visage, like the world was completely beneath him. The walker didn’t stop his movement, despite the command in Japanese.
“Kill him,” Hogan said.
Machida regarded Hogan coldly.
BOLAN CLOSED IN ON the first sniper he’d seen, hoping to cut the distance the bullet from his Walther flew. The shorter the flight path of the bullet, the less disturbed air. The sonic crack from the 9 mm slug wouldn’t draw as much attention. He glanced to his right, and saw that the snipers at the tree line were all keeping their eyes focused on Hogan’s mercenaries.
Machida had just been challenged to kill the intruder on the scene, and Bolan wanted to give the old man a chance to get out of this alive.
At three feet away, Bolan stood over the gunman with the hunting rifle. The sniper sensed the Executioner’s presence and swung the rifle around quickly. Bolan squeezed the trigger, and the gunman toppled lifelessly to the forest floor. Bolan’s hand snagged the rifle before it clattered to the ground.
The Executioner dropped to his knees and quickly slid into the dead Yakuza soldier’s place. In the shadows of the foliage around him, none of the other gunners reacted to his sudden action. The bolt-action rifle would be worth a lot in a gunfight. Ten spare rounds for the magazine were stuck into a saddle on the stock of the rifle.
The Executioner turned his attention back to the stand off in the clearing. The walker passed by Rebecca Anthony as she stood in the middle of the gravel. The spindly figure stopped, looking her over.
“Dammit… I just want to get away from all of this,” she said, voice trembling and soft, but full of angry resolve.
Bolan shouldered the hunting rifle. He’d have five, maybe six shots before he had to reload or switch to the Walther, but he refused to let the girl be harmed.
The walker grabbed her wrist and sneered, flipping aside his robes.
That’s when