Blood Tide. Don Pendleton

gave orders and the servants lined up along the wall to Bolan’s left and eyed him nervously.

      “Tell them to throw the plates in the air across the courtyard, as high as they can, when I say go.”

      The master leaned forward with keen interest as he translated the instructions. The tension of the servants grew palpable as they obeyed.

      Bolan’s hands dropped loosely to his sides.

      Mack Bolan was a master of no martial art, but he was an incredibly lethal man with his bare hands. And, long ago, the Green Berets had made Bolan a master sniper. His War Everlasting had made him the most lethal living exponent of combat sharpshooting on the planet.

      “Go!”

      The china spun into the air like awkward porcelain dishes.

      The servants didn’t have time to cower as the Beretta 93-R cleared leather. A machine pistol was a specialist’s weapon. Most respected firearms’ authorities eschewed them altogether. They were too heavy for a pistol, but much too light for a submachine gun. Their rate of fire made them almost uncontrollable on full-auto. A few gun experts grudgingly opined that they made a good weapon for the point man of an entry team, but that man would require prohibitive amounts of training to make it worthwhile.

      Bolan had trained with the 93-R for hundreds of hours and fought with the weapon in his hand for more years than he cared to think about. The smooth rosewood grips had been custom fitted to his hand and the action tuned to oil-on-glass slick perfection. Bolan knew the weapon’s recoil and rapid cycling like old friends.

      The Beretta 93-R had become an extension of his will.

      Seven plates spun into the air. The white dot front sight of the Beretta whipped toward the farthest and lowest flying plate. Both of Bolan’s eyes were open, bringing the front sight blade and the plate into convergence. His finger caressed the trigger, and the machine pistol cycled in his hand.

      Bolan’s speed had left the guards no time to react. They jumped as the pistol spit its first burst and the plate came apart. The spell broke, and they swung their automatic rifles up as Bolan’s second 3-round burst snarled from his gun.

      The Executioner ignored the riflemen. He concentrated on the plates as they hit their apogee and began falling back to earth. The front sight of his pistol whipped from target to target without conscious thought. Each time the white dot eclipsed a plate, Bolan squeezed the trigger and the Italian steel snarled off a 3-round burst cycling at just over eighteen rounds per second.

      Plate after plate shattered. Bolan grimaced and dropped his aim as he touched off his last burst. The seventh plate shattered less than three feet from the ground. The lead servant in line shrieked as his robes were harmlessly sprayed with bits of ceramic shrapnel.

      The Beretta 93-R racked open on a smoking empty chamber.

      The seven plates had been shattered in as many heartbeats.

      The sudden silence in the courtyard was deafening.

      The guards dropped their rifles on their slings and began applauding wildly. Mei and Du joined them. There was renewed respect in Du’s eyes. Ming tossed his lily at Bolan’s feet in tribute. “Ah!” He rolled his eyes at Mei, and his smile was ecstatic. “You brought me not just an American, but—” he savored the words like fine wine as he spoke them “—a gunfighter.”

      Bolan slid a loaded magazine into his pistol and pressed the slide release home on a fresh round before he holstered it. He had done fancier shooting, often on the field of battle and in the face of oncoming fire. Bolan allowed himself a small smile. Seven plates in one and a half seconds…

      Ming sat up in his chair. “Gau, have some of the men light some firecrackers in the street to allay the neighbor’s suspicions.”

      The gangster turned back to Bolan. “I believe I know what it is you wish of me, and I believe it would be my pleasure to render you assistance. Give me a week while I send forth my agents. In the mean time,” the gangster said, opening a huge but graceful hand in invitation, “be my guests. I insist.”

      Bolan frowned. A week of downtime, and who knew how many more innocent targets would get hit. Ming caught the look and shrugged.

      “During that time, it would be my honor to teach you something of the sword.” He smiled enigmatically. “I believe you may have some need of one where you will be going.”

      4

      Macao

      “Cut! Cut! Cut!” Ming’s blade hurtled down at Bolan like a gleaming meteor. Sweat dripped from Bolan’s brow as he fought. Ming’s crushed velvet suit of the day was lime green, but he had shoved off his suspenders and fought in his sleeveless T-shirt beneath the southern Chinese sun. Bolan fought stripped to the waist as Ming attacked him, the giant mobster shouting at him all the while like an angry headmaster.

      Bolan was bleeding from numerous superficial cuts that could easily have lopped off limbs had Ming wanted. Purple bruises blossomed beneath the skin of Bolan’s cheek and his arms and shoulders where Ming had struck him with the flat of the blade or hit him with the pommel. Bolan ignored his blood dripping on the hot tiles and the sweat stinging his eyes and fought on.

      “Cut!” Ming roared.

      Chinese martial-arts masters did not encourage their students. They beat on them, literally and figuratively, until they mastered the technique or quit.

      Bolan held a two-handed sword. It was barely three feet long, and the massive, curved blade seemed much too short and far too wide. The cord-wrapped handle was one-third as long as the blade and mounted with a thick, rigid, black iron ring at the bottom. Although it was a two-handed sword, Ming forbade Bolan to touch it with his left hand. Once Bolan had picked it up he had found it amazingly well balanced and lightning fast.

      “You are forcing it!” Ming shouted. “Use your wrist! Let the blade do the work! Do not chop at me! I am not a goat! This is not a butcher’s stall in the market! Cut!”

      Ming’s own broadsword whirled around his wrist, flashing like lightning. “Like this! And this! And this!”

      The slender saber whipped up, down and sideways in a dazzling array of cuts. Their swords rang with blow after blow as Bolan barely blocked the incoming barrage.

      “Cut! Cut! Cut!” Ming said. “I see your left hand yearning to grip the blade for a two-handed blow! I see you have had training in the Japanese sword, and you desire to pull the hilt toward you for the slice! Cut! This is not a kendo dojo! Chinese swords express themselves outwardly! Let your wrist succumb to the curve! Let your weapon’s weight do your work for you!”

      Bolan knew intuitively that Ming was right. The few sword fights Bolan had been in and the little formal training he had received in swordsmanship were with the Japanese katana and its smaller, straight cousin, the ninja-to. Those instincts were interfering with the morning’s lesson.

      Bolan had to empty his cup before more knowledge could be poured in.

      The Executioner let his wrist succumb to the curve of the blade. He stopped defending, and his blade licked out in series of blindingly fast attacks.

      “Better!” Ming grinned delightedly as he parried the attacks. “Better!”

      The giant gangster counterattacked. They fought back and forth, blades ringing beneath the watchful eyes of Ming’s guards. Ming no longer punished Bolan for his mistakes but let him explore the blade, now that he was using it properly. He grunted corrections, and every time Bolan made a mistake Ming stopped and made him do the move ten times correctly, and then resumed the battle.

      Forty-five minutes later the noon sun hammered down on the courtyard.

      “Enough!” Ming stepped back. “You will learn nothing more at this point but the mistakes of fatigue.”

      Bolan didn’t argue. His arm felt