Enemy Arsenal. Don Pendleton

      “There!” Rachel grabbed his hand and redirected the light. “Is that it?”

      “Yeah. Jesus, someone’s out there!” James played the beam over the small mass, which looked like a crude raft cobbled together out of scrapwood and two oil barrels lashed together. What might have been a small pile of rags on top was actually a child’s body, lying motionless on the small platform’s surface. The makeshift float drifted toward them in the calm water, about thirty yards ahead off the right side.

      “Holy shit! Call the bridge, have them turn to starboard. I’ll see if I can snag it.” Rachel grabbed an intercom handset from the wall while Barrett snatched a long boat hook from the wall rack and ran to the back of the vessel. Feeling the deck shift slightly underneath him, he realized the captain had turned toward the raft.

      As he passed by a door, it opened and a crew member stepped out, followed by Stuart, one of Rachel’s brothers. “Can I be of assistance, sir?”

      “Yeah, there’s a kid on a raft to starboard. I’m gonna try to snag him as we pass.” Barrett led the two men to the rear of the boat, where he stepped onto the flat deck used for launching smaller boats or personal watercrafts.

      “Would you rather that I take care of this, sir?” The mate was as insistent as he could be under the circumstances, even gently reaching out for the pole with one hand.

      James shook his head. “No, I’ve got it, but I’d appreciate some backup just in case it’s heavier than it looks.”

      “Careful. You don’t want to take a dip out here, James. Sharks, you know.” Nattily attired in khaki shorts and a pressed tropical shirt, Stuart lounged against the wall, drink in hand, content to let the other two men take the lead.

      “Just make sure I don’t go in with it.”

      “I’ve got you, sir.” The mate was polite, with a subtle British accent. Barrett tried not to think too much about how he was being supported, with the man’s arm around his waist, but his eyes focused on the raft, now just a few yards away. He reached out with the pole and caught a board, only to have it tear free when he tried to draw the rickety vessel closer, making it rock back and forth.

      “Careful, James!” Rachel, her robe wrapped around herself, watched from the walkway.

      “I’m trying, dear. Almost...got him...” Barrett stretched out again and wedged his hook into a gap between two boards, hearing the scrape of metal on metal. He pulled the pole in, watching the platform move closer. “Get ready to grab him.”

      “Right.” The raft bumped the corner of the luxury yacht, and the steward reached down and plucked the huddled boy, who remained curled in a ball, on board. “I’ve got him.”

      “Rachel, get some food and water. He’s probably dehydrated.” James pushed the raft away, sending the rickety pile of wood and barrels spinning into the night.

      “I’m on it.” She disappeared into the ship.

      “We’ll probably need a blanket, as well—” Barrett’s words were interrupted by the kid, who suddenly unfolded himself and wriggled out of the crew member’s arms. What was even more surprising was the ugly black pistol he pointed at the man, the weapon large in his small hands.

      “Chuò! Chuò!”

      “What the hell?” Stuart, for all his supposed indolence, took a step forward, only to have the muzzle of the pistol swivel to cover him. He raised his hands, not alarmed enough yet to put his drink down.

      “What’s going on?” Barrett didn’t take his eyes off the gun, estimating the distance between him and the boy, who couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven years old. The boat hook was still in his hand, but he was careful not to draw attention to it.

      “He told us to stop. He might be a decoy for pirates.”

      “Damn, we need to disarm him and warn the others.” Stuart shifted his weight, drawing the boy’s flat stare. At that, Barrett lashed out with the hook, trying to knock the gun aside, or even better, right out of the boy’s hand.

      Catching the movement from the corner of his eye, the boy ducked under Barrett’s swipe and swung the gun over toward him, which spit flame as he pulled the trigger. Barrett felt a sudden stab of pain in his abdomen, and looked down to see an expanding spot of dark wetness on his shirt.

      “Little bastard...shot me...” Barrett leaned against the railing as the steward leaped forward to grab the pistol, wrenching it out of the boy’s grasp. Distracted, he didn’t notice the shadowy form that came around the corner of the yacht and slipped up behind him.

      Barrett tried to shout a warning, but Stuart and the crew member were talking at the same time, calling for the physician. Their shouts for help mixed with the foreign curses and cries of the wriggling boy. The steward’s voice was cut off with a gasp as the shadow came up behind him and wrapped an arm around his throat, doing something that made the man arch his back, his expression a grimacing mask of agony. The other man, a short, wiry Asian dressed in shapeless black pants and shirt, stepped back and let his victim fall to the formerly spotless deck, now dappled with Barrett’s blood. A large knife, its blade dark and gleaming wet, was in his hand.

      “Shit!” Stuart hurled his drink into the man’s face, the glass shattering against his cheek and making him drop his blade and clutch his face, screaming in pain. “Come on, buddy!” He grabbed Barrett and hoisted him up, slinging his limp arm over his shoulder.

      “Rachel...don’t let them get Rachel...” James found it suddenly hard to think. His free hand, clamped over his wound, was soaked in blood, and he knew if he didn’t get help soon, he would die.

      “Let’s just get inside— Son of a bitch!” Stuart’s frantic tone made Barrett look up to see three more of the invaders, machetes and pistols in hand, running toward them from the ship’s bow. Shouts and screams could now be heard from elsewhere on the yacht, along with the thuds of running feet.

      “Come on!” The Kirkall brother wrestled with the door, shoving it open and pushing Barrett through. Stepping over him, Stuart pushed the door closed just as a body thumped into it from outside.

      “James, help me—I can’t hold this against all of them—”

      Barrett, however, couldn’t even help himself, his vision fading to gray as the blood loss started to take its toll on him. He heard a scream from somewhere in the room, then felt footsteps beside him as the door slammed open, Stuart falling over him with a grunt.

      The sound of rapid, shouted Chinese filled the room as the hijackers beat Stuart to the floor. Barrett felt himself supported by warm, familiar hands, and looked up to see Rachel’s tear-stained face above him.

      “What happened, baby?” She took his hand away from his stomach, stifling a gasp at the growing puddle of blood leaking out of him. “Oh, my God—James, we have to get hel—”

      Before she could do anything, her head was jerked backward, and she was dragged away from him by her hair, screaming and grabbing her assailant’s hands. Barrett was left to flop onto the floor, helpless.

      “Leave...her alone...” he gasped, trying to muster the strength to crawl after her attacker, but unable to make his arms and legs work. The last sounds he heard were the thuds of fists on flesh and the piercing screams of his girlfriend before darkness overtook him.

      CHAPTER ONE

      “These chulos better show up tonight. Gettin’ tired of feeling my rear end grow wider sitting all night waitin’ on ’em.”

      Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, turned from watching the dilapidated warehouse near the docks of the Los Angeles Harbor to shoot a wry look at his partner. “I’m sure they’ll be here soon enough, Cal.” His grin disappeared as he returned to watching the night. “If they want what we’re selling bad enough, they’ll be here.”

      The