Murder Island. Don Pendleton

it out through local brokers. The top-floor apartment had been made into Bolan’s safehouse. It contained only a military cot, a fridge full of cheap food bought from the large market on the corner of Ki Lung Street and, of course, an armory.

      The latter wasn’t as well-stocked as Bolan ordinarily liked. It was built into the apartment’s closet and hidden behind a wealth of knock-off clothing bought from street vendors on Cheung Sha Wan Road. Bolan had constructed it himself, using the materials he’d had at hand to create a false back. Behind a section of loose paneling, he kept a spare set of gear—another set of fatigues, body armor and web gear, a UMP and ammunition and a backup pistol.

      He’d left the airfield as soon as possible. Once Spence and Cloud were in the air, Bolan had figured that his part in the operation was done. He’d taken the truck and left it several blocks from the safehouse. Spence’s ground crew would take care of the bodies left behind and the helicopter, and then split, if the Agency was still following standard protocol. Someone in the chain of authority would smother any reports of gunfire, and the whole event would be buried under Bullshit Mountain, along with every other screwup.

      And it had been a screwup. As he stripped out of his shredded body armor and damp fatigues, Bolan wondered whose mistake it was. Had Cloud’s helicopter been tracked to the airfield? Or had there been a leak somewhere further up the line? The truck must have been in transit not long after he’d caught Cloud, which meant that whoever had sent it was efficient, or they had reason to suspect where it was going. If it was the latter, then Spence’s operation was compromised and had been since the beginning.

      In Bolan’s experience, that was true of most such operations. It was one of the many reasons he preferred to work alone; fewer moving parts meant fewer mistakes. Dressed now in his street clothes, he sat on the cot, swiftly dismantled both pistols and then dried and oiled them. They could survive a dunking, but proper weapon maintenance was paramount in the Executioner’s view.

      Once he was finished, he would arrange for his departure. When Brognola’s call had come, Bolan was preparing for another mission—one of his own, rather than one for Stony Man. The target was a man named Gapon, an ex-KGB operative. Bolan had never come face-to-face with Gapon, but he’d seen the killer’s handiwork more than once. He had photos, a mug shot and files spread across the cot, and he flipped through them as he worked.

      Gapon, like a lot of former KGB agents, had found new employment with the Russian mafia. He’d put his skills to use, doing terrible things for terrible people, and he was currently in Melbourne. It was possible that Gapon had contracted out to one of the many organized crime cartels based in Melbourne, such as the Carlton Crew or the Honoured Society, but for what reason, Bolan couldn’t tell.

      He’d been happy enough to put that particular job on the back burner, for Brognola. Whatever Gapon was up to, he hadn’t looked as if he was going anywhere anytime soon. But now that Cloud was safely in Spence’s custody, Bolan could deal with Gapon.

      Spence’s offer of a lift had been tempting, but Bolan preferred making his own way, where possible. Fewer screwups were likely if he handled his own transportation. Besides, Bolan wasn’t sure if he could have taken any more time in close confines with Cloud. With Gapon, he could kill the man and be done with it, rather than have to play nice. A smile spread across his face as he considered what the future held. At the very least, Gapon wouldn’t throw a tiger at him.

      As he worked he listened to the noise drifting down from above. The roof of the tenement was home to a claustrophobic mass of concrete huts and shanties of wood and tin. The residents were mostly Nepalese, with a few Pakistani families in the mix. The tenement was noisy, even at night, but he didn’t mind. Though he was a solitary man by nature, Bolan liked the rush of life and the noise and the smells of food cooking. Occasionally he needed to remind himself why he fought.

      Someone knocked on the door. Bolan tensed. He went to the closet and retrieved his spare Beretta, clipping the holster to his belt. He went to the door and opened it slightly. A young woman stood outside in the hall, looking nervous and fearful. She said something in rapid-fire Nepali but switched to English when Bolan shook his head.

      “Come quick,” she said. “Mr. Regmi said to get you.”

      Bolan nodded and stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. Regmi was one of his upstairs neighbors, a shrunken old man who grew a garden right over Bolan’s cot. Regmi had become obsessed with teaching Bolan how to play Mahjong on his infrequent visits to Hong Kong. His neighbor was a crook, as well, though what kind Bolan couldn’t say. He had strong connections to the local gray market and ostensibly sold electronics at a stall on Cheung Sha Wan Road. He was harmless enough, however, and he’d provided Bolan with important intelligence on more than one occasion. If you needed it, or needed to know about it, he could get it for you, no questions asked.

      Bolan followed the girl upstairs and out onto the roof, where a crowd was starting to gather.

      Four young men were crowded in front of Regmi’s shack, yelling at the old man in English. Bolan knew instantly what they were after—the unlucky inhabitants of these penthouse shanty towns were regularly victimized by gangs who sometimes, but not always, worked for the building owners. Residents were shaken down for money they rarely had, and evicted when they could no longer pay the exorbitant rents they were charged for living rough.

      Bolan had sent more than one such group on their way on his previous visits to Hong Kong. He didn’t recognize these men from those earlier confrontations, but he could read their lean, hungry looks easily enough. Not enough food, not enough love, not enough anything, made wolves out of people, whatever their nationality.

      Regmi stared up at them placidly as they shouted at him, his eyes bright and clear behind the scratched lenses of his glasses. He was a small man, and seemingly getting smaller as he got older, but he had a big voice and when he saw Bolan he boomed, “Ah, here is the man you should ask about that, my friends.”

      The crowd parted around Bolan. Four heads swiveled toward him and Bolan said, “I think you gentlemen should leave.”

      He sized them up quickly. They were young, but built hard, toughened by a life on the streets. No guns that he could see, but that didn’t mean they weren’t armed. They hadn’t expected trouble, however. He glanced at Regmi, who smiled genially.

      “This is Mr. Ortega,” the old man said. “Mr. Ortega, these four young men wish to collect a second rent from the inhabitants of this building.”

      “Well, that seems unfair,” Bolan said.

      Regmi smiled. He was a wily old fox and Bolan suspected that he’d engineered this little showdown for his own amusement, as well as that of his neighbors.

      “It is, is it not?” Regmi said. “But they will not be budged, I am afraid.”

      “No?” Bolan locked eyes with the biggest of the men and said, “Perhaps we can negotiate.” The four traded glances, and Bolan sighed. They never wanted to negotiate.

      The first punch was a wild one, a looping, undisciplined blow that Bolan easily batted aside. He replied with a stiff pop to the young man’s belly, folding him double. As the youth wheezed and bent forward, Bolan caught his head and propelled him into a cement wall, hard.

      The second came in fast, a cheap knife in his hand. He slashed at Bolan and the Executioner caught the blade between his palms and twisted it out of its owner’s grip. As the youth backpedaled in shock, Bolan examined the knife and then sent it spinning into a wooden wall with a flick of his wrist.

      The thug came at him in a rush, fists balled up. Bolan blocked one blow and then another before stabbing the stiffened fingers of his right hand into the youth’s throat. The young man sank, gagging. Bolan drove a knee into his skull and knocked him sprawling, even as the last two members of the quartet came at him in a rush.

      Bolan spun to face them. He jerked out of the way of a punch and snagged the young man’s wrist, pulling him forward to drive a hard uppercut into his jaw. The youth sagged and Bolan shoved him into his friend, who stumbled