The Killing Rule. Don Pendleton

slowly opened their jackets. A huge hand reached around Bolan and drew the Beretta 93-R. The Executioner spoke quietly. “Ankle holster and right pocket.” He was relieved of his snub-nosed 9 mm Centennial revolver and his Mikov switchblade.

      The Executioner slid his eyes to look at the man as he moved off to disarm McCarter. Lunk had earned his name. He was huge. Not big like a bodybuilder or an athlete, but a human built to a different scale. He was running six foot six with shoulders that were axe-handle broad, from which hung arms like an orangutan. He had the pale complexion, anvil jaw, snub nose and tightly curling brown hair that fairly screamed Welshman.

      He took McCarter’s Hi-Power pistol, noting the shortened Argentine “Detective” slide and the chrome base plate of the Israeli 15-round magazine with one raised brown eyebrow.

      McCarter kept his smile painted on his face. “Not the warmest welcome I’ve ever had in Guernsey, Bill.”

      “Can’t be too careful these days, David.” The aging lord stared at McCarter long and hard. “These days, in this business, it’s your friends who come to kill you, and they come smiling.”

      “You sound like you’re speaking from recent experience, Lord William,” Bolan commented.

      “A Yank, then?”

      “Yes, your lordship. I’ve been having a few people coming by to kill me, as well. David was kind enough to arrange a meet so that you and I might compare notes. I think we have a few things in common.”

      Lord William turned to McCarter. “I haven’t seen you in years, David. Then you call me out of the blue sky and tell me it’s urgent and come armed with an American in tow. What’s this all about?”

      “Well, it’s a fine, soft morning, Bill. Shall we take that stretch of the legs and talk?”

      Lord William stared up into the misting rain. “Oh God, no. I’m an old man. It’s worth my life to be out in this mist and muck.” He slung his weapon and suddenly grinned. “Let’s go inside and drink whiskey.”

      CHAPTER FIVE

      They sat in leather chairs in front of a roaring fireplace that was large enough to double as a car port for a Volkswagen. Spot and Starkers lay curled before it on a polar bear rug. Lord William had put away his Sterling, but when he unbuttoned his coat a Browning Hi-Power pistol in a shoulder holster was revealed. He and McCarter sipped ten-year-old Laphroaig single-malt whiskey from the Isle of Islay. Bolan drank a pint of the locally brewed ale. Lunk and two of the yeomen hung back in the shadows of the cavernous hall drinking ale and keeping their weapons close to hand. They were all quiet for a few moments while Lord William observed the laws of hospitality and everyone warmed their bones.

      “So, David. What’s this all about?”

      “Well, Bill, there’s been some trouble in London.”

      Lord William peered over the rim of his whiskey glass. “Oh?”

      “Yes, the CIA had two agents end up in the Thames. The IRA is involved.”

      “Well, what the bloody hell is the CIA doing mucking about with the IRA? Can’t MI-5 cut the mustard anymore?”

      Bolan decided to play it straight. “The operation was run without the cooperation or the knowledge of MI-5 or Her Majesty’s government.”

      “Well, it serves them bloody right, then, doesn’t it?” Lord William snorted with disgust born of long experience. “Central sodding Intelligence my flaming—”

      “Lord William, it appears some of your employees are involved.”

      “Really.”

      Lord William turned to the gigantic Welshman. “Lunk, you taffy bastard! Have you been having it on with the IRA again?”

      “Oh, no, m’lord.” The giant grinned malevolently from where he stood drinking by the sideboard. His voice was as deep as thunder in the distance. “I haven’t killed an Irish in, oh, ten years?”

      “CIA?” Lord William said hopefully.

      “No.” Lunk finished his pint. “Not that I’d mind so much, though.”

      Lord William gestured with his whiskey glass at the four men bearing shotguns and drinking on the couch. “How about the rest of you lads, then? Been misbehaving in London when I wasn’t looking?”

      The men grinned and shook their heads in unison.

      Lord William turned back to Bolan with a helpless shrug. “That’s most of the men I have on staff.”

      “Actually, I’m thinking more along the lines of Aegis Global Security employees.”

      Lord William shifted uncomfortably. “Well, for one, except for some accountants, lawyers and office staff, Aegis has no permanent employees. We have stockholders, and then we have contractors—we call them associates—whom Aegis employs, contract by contract, job by job. And two, Aegis Global Security doesn’t take contract work from the IRA. Indeed, on numerous occasions we’ve taken jobs to protect people from the IRA. Successful jobs, mind you, and we weren’t in the business of arresting people or taking prisoners, if you get my meaning. Except for MI-5 we’re the IRA’s worst bloody nightmare.”

      Bolan opened his folder and started handing over pictures. “Do you know this woman?”

      Lord William stared at the Scottish redhead with appreciation. “No, but I’d like to.”

      Bolan handed him the pictures of the former French Legionnaire and the smaller South African. Lord William shook his head in mounting irritation and suddenly stopped. He tapped his finger on the final picture of the big man.

      “You know him?”

      “I remember him vaguely.” Lord William nodded. “Ruud something. Yes, that’s it, Ruud Heitinga. South African lad. Reconnaissance Commando.” He frowned. “Bit too fond of interrogation for my taste. Always pulled his weight, though. Had a brother, Arjen, even bigger than he was, big enough to give Lunk a run for his money. Together, the two of them were something of a terror.”

      “Lord William, I realize that Aegis doesn’t have a standing private army, and that people who have worked for you in the past are quite capable of going off and doing private, illegal contract work without your knowledge. But you must have a roster of people who have worked for you,” Bolan said.

      “Well, of course, but I’m not sure how I can help you. You see, I haven’t had my hand directly in the business except for shareholder votes in oh, well, probably going on ten years.”

      “But you are listed as the president of the company.”

      Lord William flushed with embarrassment. “Well, it’s not something I’m particularly proud of, but about eleven years ago I grew a wild hair to sail solo around the world. It took me ninety days, a respectable time, but when I returned I’d found there’d been something of a hostile takeover at Aegis.” Lord William shrugged. “I’ve always been good at making fortunes and starting businesses, but the trick, you see, is keeping them. Never my strong suit. It was all very polite. All very firm.”

      Lord William glanced up at the life-size replica of classical Greek hoplite shield hanging over the mantel. It was painted black, and a gold fist holding a lightning bolt was emblazoned in the center. It was the Aegis, the all-protective shield of Zeus in Greek mythology. “Of course they wanted to keep the logo hanging over the door and my face on the yearly prospectus. So they let me have the title of president, but it’s largely ceremonial, for publicity purposes.”

      “I’m sorry to hear that.”

      Lord William shrugged philosophically. “Well, you know. Aegis turned a profit but it was never a huge moneymaker. I started it in the eighties almost on a lark to get work for some good men I knew, myself included. It’s Jennings who really made the company take off. It’s bigger than ever, and good men from dozens of