Mission: Apocalypse. Don Pendleton

mitts while his nubile assistants twisted like dreamy-eyed circus contortionists. “Heaven Now?”

      “Change your life, man,” Dominico confirmed. “Changed mine.”

      Bolan peered down at Dominico with sudden intuition. “This is why you retired from the life?”

      “Hey, man, everybody’s got to grow up sometime. I been a legend twice. But Santo Solomon had two cracked vertebrae in his neck, and the doctors told him if he wrestled again he’d end up in a wheelchair. No one needed to tell King Solomon that he was going to wind up dead or in prison. Not that I cared, until a couple of years ago. Gavi helped me get my head right.”

      “Gavi?”

      Dominico grunted up at the screen and the bald man with the piercing eyes. “Gavi.”

      “So you quit the life because you found God?”

      “Found Gavi.” Dominico grinned. “The rest I’m working on.”

      Bolan gave Dominico a long, calculating look. “Memo, you want to go for a ride?”

      Dominico’s face went flat. “I’ve seen that movie, man.”

      Bolan shrugged. The ruby dot of the laser never wavered from Dominico’s forehead. “I can kill you now.”

      Dominico weighed the steel in Bolan’s blue eyes. “A ride is good.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      Campo Militar No. 1

      “Uhh…” Dominico looked unhappily at the gates of Mexico City’s military base. “You know me and the military don’t get along so good.”

      “Relax, you’re with me.” Bolan tossed Dominico the keys to his handcuffs. “And I won’t tell them who you are if you don’t.”

      Dominico removed his manacles and rubbed his wrists. “You know this is kidnapping.”

      Bolan nodded through the Caddy’s tinted glass at the Mexican military policemen with assault rifles guarding the gate. “Take it up with them.” Bolan rolled down the window and displayed an ID card and a pass. The guard nodded and waved them in.

      Dominico watched barracks and military buildings pass by. “Man, just who the fuck are you?”

      Bolan ignored the question. Campo Militar No. 1 was a sprawling establishment with many of the Mexican Army’s branches having headquarters. Bolan knew exactly where he was going. He had already been there once earlier in the week. He drove up to a complex of tents that had the universal medical Red Cross flag flying over them. “We get out here.”

      “A hospital? Why are we—”

      Bolan got out and went into the tent complex with Dominico muttering and reluctantly following on his heels. Two guards with subdued Special Forces flashes on the sleeves of their uniforms were smoking cigarettes in the foyer tent. Both nodded at Bolan in recognition. They’re hands moved vaguely toward the grips of their FX-05 Fire Serpent assault rifles as they eyed Dominico. “Who’s he?”

      Bolan smiled. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

      The Special Forces corporal’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Try me.”

      “You don’t recognize him?” Bolan shrugged. “That’s Santo Solomon.”

      The guard’s jaw dropped. “No fucking way!”

      Dominico was appalled.

      “Do it!” the guards begged in unison. “Do it!”

      Dominico shot Bolan a look, sighed, put his fists on his hips, flexed his pecs, flared his lats, turned his head and lifted his chin as he seemed to lean slightly into a wind only he was aware of. The profile was unmistakable. You could almost see the silver cape flowing behind him. “Santo!” the guards cried. “Santo Solomon!” Both men snatched up pens and paper from the desk and demanded autographs. Bolan and Dominico were both given neck badges and proceeded past the checkpoint while the guards stopped just short of squealing like schoolgirls and fainting in Dominico’s wake.

      “I can’t believe you told them who I was, man. You never reveal masked wrestlers,” Dominico muttered. “It isn’t cool.”

      “I had to tell them something. I could have told them you were King Solomon the notorious drug smuggler instead. You saw the patches on their uniforms? Those young gentlemen are Special Forces and trained specifically to kill people like your other alter ego.”

      “Man…” Dominico wasn’t mollified. “What am I doing here?”

      “There’s something I want you to see.” They passed through a canvas corridor and came into a large medical tent. “And some people I want you to meet.”

      A short, fat bald man in a white lab coat waddled forward quickly. He was followed by a short, lean man in Mexican military camouflage with the subdued three-star insignia of a colonel. The doctor stared at Dominico in awe. “It’s true!”

      Dominico sighed heavily. Bolan suspected the guards had gotten on their cell phones. Bolan made introductions. “Dr. Corso, Colonel Llosa, meet Memo Dominico.”

      The doctor giddily pumped Dominico’s hand. “You know, I grew up watching El Santo, the original.”

      “Who didn’t?” Dominico admitted diplomatically.

      “But you? Santo Solomon? When my boys were young? You were their hero. I took them to see you wrestle El Monstro Rojo when you won the title.” Corso managed to curb his hero worship slightly. “Forgive me, but may I ask why you are here?”

      Colonel Llosa stared at Dominico with a professional interest that had nothing to do with wrestling. “I also must admit I am intrigued.”

      “It’s somewhat complicated,” Bolan said. “Dr. Corso, may I show him your patients?”

      “Of course.” There were sixteen beds in the tent but only two were occupied, and monitors, drips and machines surrounded them. Dominico jarred to a halt as they got close. The two men inhabiting the beds hardly looked human. Neither was conscious and their breath was so shallow that only the mournful beeps of the vital signs monitor indicated they were alive. Dozens of tubes and wires were busy carrying out their most basic bodily functions for them while other machines monitored their impending death. They were as stick-thin as famine victims and open sores covered their bald, sunken skulls.

      “You know what’s killing these guys, Memo?” Bolan inquired.

      “I don’t know.” Dominico stared at the two dying men greenly. “AIDS?”

      Bolan read Dominico’s body language and saw no deception. “No, radiation poisoning.”

      “Radiation poisoning?” Again Dominico was clearly both confused and appalled. “How did they get radiation poisoning?”

      “They were exposed to radioactive material,” Llosa answered dryly. “Dr. Corso is the head of Nuclear Medicine at the American British Cowdray Hospital Cancer Center here in Mexico City. Doctor?”

      Corso tapped his chart. “Both men were exposed to lethal levels of radiation. Given the rapid onset of symptoms and the searing of the lungs I believe they breathed in contaminated dust, most likely from spent nuclear fuel rods that had been stored improperly. We will most likely never know. Both men were in an advanced state when they were dropped off in the parking lot at Mexico City General. Neither man was conscious at the time of admission and neither has regained consciousness since. They were initially misdiagnosed as victims of some sort of virus and put under quarantine. Luckily the head virologist had received federal nuclear, biological and chemical emergency training and recognized the symptoms of radiation poisoning. It then became a military matter. I was called in and the United States government contacted.”

      “Any luck IDing them?” Bolan asked.

      The