Death Run. Don Pendleton

to face the two men from the Free Flow garage. The man on the ground got up, his face scraped up from hitting the rough pavement. The two contemplated attacking Anderson, but when they saw Bolan, a look of recognition crossed their faces and they scurried back into the garage.

      “Those bastards killed Darrick,” Anderson said. “They killed my brother.”

      “Are you sure about that?” Bolan asked.

      “There’s no way in hell that Darrick’s crash was an accident. There’s no way that brake line came loose without someone disconnecting it. No way. Those sons of bitches killed my brother and I can prove it.”

      “How can you prove it?” Bolan asked. Anderson looked up at Bolan, suspicion in his eyes. “This is not a good place to talk,” Bolan said. “Can I buy you a drink later?”

      “I don’t drink.” After watching alcohol and drugs destroy Darrick’s career, Eddie avoided the culture of hedonism that swirled around the racing circuit with an almost fanatical zeal, focusing on riding with the concentration of a Buddhist monk. The offer only increased his mistrust of the large stranger. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got a meeting.” He rushed off before Bolan could question him further.

      Bolan had no doubt that Eddie was lying about the meeting, but he couldn’t fault the kid for not trusting him, especially if what he said about his brother was true. Bolan made a note to speak further with the young man, but for now the soldier did have a meeting, one he couldn’t afford to miss.

      THE ABRASIVE YOUNG American racer reminded Jameed Botros of his older brother, and as with the older Anderson, Botros felt it his duty to Allah to kill the man. People believed that Eddie Anderson differed from his brother, that he was not a slave to the vices that had destroyed Darrick’s career, but Botros knew the younger man deceived those around him. He was first and foremost an American, and like all Americans he was weak. Botros had wanted to kill him the minute he laid eyes on him during the winter tire tests.

      Now he might have a reason, but first he would have to clear it with bin Osman. Botros had gotten away with making a unilateral decision regarding the older Anderson brother; he dared not move against the younger brother without express permission from his superior. Botros had to present the Malaysian with a good reason why Eddie Anderson should be killed, and that is exactly what the impetuous youngster was giving him.

      “You killed him!” the young rider shouted at Botros. Botros just smiled, knowing that when he reported Anderson’s behavior to his supervisor, he would receive permission to eliminate the boy. “I know you killed him, and I can prove it!”

      Anderson lunged toward Botros, but before he reached the Saudi, three sets of hands grabbed him and slammed him down on his back. Botros looked down at the face. The rage that twisted Anderson’s features made him appear much older than his twenty-one years. “I am sure you are mistaken,” Botros said. “It makes no sense that we would kill your brother.”

      “I don’t give a shit if it makes sense or not! I know you did it!”

      “Your brother’s death was an accident. A tragic accident. His brakes failed.”

      “His brakes didn’t fail. You loosened the brake lines and I can prove it!”

      Botros had had enough of this foolish American. “Throw him out,” he ordered his men in Arabic. For a small man, Anderson put up an impressive fight, but he was outnumbered four to one and after a drawn-out struggle, they ultimately ejected him from the garage complex. Before he was out the door Botros was in his office, calling bin Osman.

      “We had an unexpected visitor this morning,” Botros told his supervisor.

      “Who might that be?” bin Osman asked.

      “Eddie Anderson.”

      “Ah, the grieving brother.”

      “It would be more correct to call him the raging brother,” Botros said. “He practically attacked me.”

      “Does he know?”

      “He does. He even knows how we did it. He says he has proof, though how that is possible I don’t know.”

      Bin Osman paused for a moment. “This young man could disrupt our plans.”

      “Do you want my men to take care of him?” Botros asked.

      Again bin Osman paused. “No, we cannot draw unwanted attention to ourselves. He is too high-profile. Our plan must succeed. For that to happen, we have to be free to operate without the authorities investigating us, so we cannot engage in any activity that might attract such scrutiny. I know how we can deal with this.”

      “How?” Botros asked.

      “You cannot give the authorities information you do not possess,” bin Osman told Botros. “Just have faith that I will handle the problem. Unlike the way your men failed to handle our problem in Qatar last week.”

      Bin Osman hit a sore spot with the Saudi. The Malaysian had been enraged when the American gasoline peddler had escaped from the boat, but Botros had managed to calm him somewhat by reminding him that they still had the plutonium.

      Getting the plutonium into the United States had been ridiculously easy. Team Free Flow had smuggled it into the country with all its other racing equipment. No customs inspector could ever hope to understand the esoteric collection of hardware and data-acquisitions electronic equipment used by a modern MotoGP racing team. It had been relatively simple to disguise the components needed to make a nuclear weapon among the racing equipment, even the Type B container used to transport the plutonium.

      “When do you want us to move the material to the lab?” Botros asked, changing the subject.

      “We’ll be ready for it on Saturday, so plan to move it tomorrow night. But at the moment don’t you have an appointment with the American?”

      “Yes, he should be here soon. Do you want us to take care of him?”

      “Like you took care of him last week? I think not. You and your men are to take no more risks, especially at the racetrack. I will take care of Mr. Cooper. Besides, I wish to meet a person who could dispatch five of your best men with such ease. Arrange for him to meet with me when I get to San Francisco tonight.”

      4

      “I’m sorry I missed you last week Mr. Cooper,” Botros told the Executioner after he sat down in the cramped office area set up in the back of the garage complex, “but it couldn’t be avoided, as you know.” Botros gave Bolan an artificially sweetened smile. “A terrible tragedy, and a blow to our organization,” he said, referring to Darrick Anderson’s death at Losail.

      Bolan thought the man didn’t seem terribly upset, especially given that the team’s second rider, an aging Brazilian, was a perennial back marker who hadn’t won a race in over a decade. Any chance of the team scoring points had died with Darrick Anderson, along with the attendant publicity his star power would have generated. Darrick’s notoriety guaranteed television exposure whenever he was on a racetrack, even if he was only battling for eighth place. The only time the Brazilian racer ever appeared on a television screen was when he was getting lapped by the front runners.

      In addition to his apparent indifference to the team’s professional loss, Botros seemed not to have experienced a personal loss, either. In the close-knit fraternity of motorcycle racing, a racer getting killed devastated all the teams, especially the dead racer’s team. It seemed as if the other teams grieved Darrick’s loss more than Team Free Flow. Eddie’s theory about his older brother’s death could very well be true. Bolan knew firsthand that Team Free Flow was affiliated with people who were more than capable of murder.

      “I tried to contact you several times over the weekend to reschedule,” Botros said, “but I couldn’t reach you. I assumed you were indisposed.”

      “I was fishing,” Bolan said. Botros’ smile wavered momentarily at Bolan’s reply, but returned more sickly