Murder Island. Don Pendleton

Bolan shoved Cloud forward. He’d bound the man’s wrists with a zip-tie on the trip to the airfield. He’d done the same to the pilot, and he propelled his second captive forward to stand beside Cloud.

      “Spence,” Cloud said. He made the agent’s name sound like a curse. Spence was the CIA’s man in Hong Kong. He was short, plump and dressed like a tourist. The tooled-leather shoulder holster he wore beneath his cheap sports coat was occupied by a 9 mm pistol and his hands had the hard calluses of a fighter.

      “That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Spence said. He took his sunglasses off and grinned at Bolan. “Agent Cooper, good to see you again.” One of Bolan’s many cover identities, Matt Cooper was an agent of the Justice Department.

      “Cooper,” Cloud said slyly, glancing at Bolan. “Is that your name? I’ll remember it.” Bolan didn’t feel threatened as much as amused. Cloud might consider himself a hard man, but Bolan had faced worse in his long, bloody career.

      “Shut up, Byron,” Spence said, swatting Cloud on the back of the head. “The grown-ups are talking.” He smiled at Bolan. “They told me you were good, Cooper, but I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.”

      “We aim to please,” Bolan said. “I wasn’t aware we’d met before.”

      “Oh, we haven’t. I saw you at a distance, during that Ackroyd thing a while ago.” Bolan nodded. “The Ackroyd thing” as Spence put it, had been bad—a group of psychotic white supremacists had attempted to let loose an antediluvian plague. Bolan had tracked them halfway to the Arctic Circle before he could put paid to the threat they represented. “Good job with that, by the by,” Spence continued. “Anyway, when they said you could get our guy out of his sanctum sanctorum, I wasn’t sure, but we’ve tried everything else. Ol’ Byron here is a slippery one.” He took hold of Cloud’s arm. “Come on. You look like you could use a cup of coffee. We got time before our flight.”

      “I could go for a coffee,” Cloud said.

      “Shut up,” Spence replied amiably. He gestured to the pilot. “Bring him, too.”

      Bolan hooked the pilot by the back of his shirt and pushed him after the others. As they walked, he took in the airfield. The cracked tarmac sprouted grass and the hangars and buildings had seen better decades. This had been an RAF base, once upon a time, but now it was privately owned. Whether the CIA was the owner in question, or merely borrowing it for the occasion, Bolan didn’t know.

      Spence led Bolan toward a hangar that held a midsize private jet and a crew working to get the plane ready.

      “Mine’s bigger,” Cloud said.

      “Yours was bigger. The Chinese have probably confiscated it by now,” Spence said. He shoved Cloud at another man. “Get him on the plane and make sure he’s cuffed, for God’s sake. Wait—you got to use the toilet?” he asked, grabbing Cloud.

      “I’m not a five-year-old,” Cloud snapped.

      “Long flight.”

      Cloud made a face and mumbled, “Yes.”

      “Let him use the toilet and then cuff him.” He turned back to Bolan. “They used this place for Operation Yellowbird, you know,” he said as his people took the pilot and Cloud away. “One of several former airfields. MI-6 and the Agency share this one, though it’s on the books as the property of a Hong Kong film studio. You watch martial arts movies?”

      Bolan looked at him blankly. Spence smiled. “Not a film guy, Cooper?”

      “I read,” Bolan said.

      “So do I,” Spence replied. “Mostly film books.” He grinned and Bolan shook his head and smiled back. “Anyway, they used filming as a cover for transporting a number of activists out of China to more hospitable climes. Whole thing was cooked up by a bunch of Hong Kong businessmen and the Agency got involved…”

      “As they tend to do,” Bolan said.

      Spence laughed. “Yeah. Got to keep those plates spinning, man.” He led Bolan into the hangar office. “Before my time, but I heard it was a hoot. Anyway, we’re lucky you got to him when you did. Someone—probably the Chinese—spilled the beans that we were onto Cloud, and it looks like his own people were getting ready to…you know…” Spence drew his thumb across his throat. “Hard to be an arms dealer these days, I guess.” He paused and then added, “Well, one that sells to terrorist groups, anyway.”

      “You seem to be on a first-name basis with him,” Bolan said.

      “Who, Byron? Yeah. He’s a mouthy little asshole, isn’t he?” Spence went to the desk, where a French press carafe sat on a tray. He tapped it. “Kenyan roast,” he said. “My one weakness.” He began to lower the press and the contents of the carafe gurgled. “I take this bad boy with me wherever I go. Anyway, yeah, Cloud’s a third-generation criminal. His granddaddy used to run a floating casino. He was mostly a blackmailer, but he dabbled in the arms trade and murder-for-hire. His daddy was of similar cut. Both were pretty nasty, so Byron’s comparatively harmless.”

      “The weapons he sells aren’t,” Bolan said as Spence poured him a cup of coffee.

      “Hope you like it strong,” Spence said, preparing his own cup. “And, no, they aren’t. But at least he’s not as good with a straight razor as his grandfather was, by all accounts.”

      Bolan smiled. “True. So why bother with him now?”

      Spence sipped his coffee. “Need-to-know, Cooper.” He smiled when he saw Bolan’s expression and waved a hand. “But between you, me and the deep, blue sea, he sold something he shouldn’t have had access to, to a group of Nigerian militants. We need to know how he knew about said something, how he got his paws on it, and who exactly he sold it to.” He scrubbed his chin with his knuckles. “Along the way, if we get a few more names and a few more grocery lists from him, well, so much the better.”

      “Grocery lists? Is that official Agency terminology?” Bolan asked. He drank his coffee, which was good, he had to admit, and looked out the window at the edge of the airfield.

      “That’s official Tony Spence terminology. Besides, what would you call them? They’re grocery lists, all right, only instead of radishes and yogurt it’s guns and bombs.” A crewman knocked on the office window and Spence nodded at him. “Plane’s about ready. You want to come along?” He sat on the desk. “I’m not going to lie. I’d feel better about having backup. Tokyo is a pretty friendly town, but a lot can happen between there and Melbourne.”

      “You think someone will make a play for him,” Bolan said. It wasn’t a question.

      “Oh, yes, sir. I do,” Spence said, refilling his cup. “I wouldn’t be surprised if every knucklehead with a gun between here and Sydney is getting a call right about now, asking for poor old Byron’s scalp.”

      Bolan frowned and took another swallow of coffee. He was inclined to deal himself in, if only to make sure the Agency didn’t screw things up too badly. A situation such as this one could get very bloody, very quickly. Transporting prisoners was a dangerous job, and though Spence seemed competent enough, Bolan had a feeling skill alone wouldn’t see Cloud to his final destination safe and sound. He was about to reply when he spotted the truck. It rolled along outside the fence line, looking out of place.

      “Is that truck one of yours?” Bolan asked.

      Spence rose from the desk. “No,” he said, all trace of humor wiped from his round features. His hand moved for his pistol.

      “Get to the plane,” Bolan said.

      “Why—?”

      The truck made a sudden, sharp turn and struck the fence, tearing it open in a spray of sparks and a scream of tearing metal. The truck was old; British army surplus, Bolan judged, though he wasn’t certain. “That’s why,” he