Lethal Compound. Don Pendleton

goggles showed him a pair of lasers drawing green lines down toward the house. He keyed his headset. “Eckhart?” he whispered.

      “Yeah,” the billionaire responded.

      “Where are you?”

      “Just watching the football game with friends while the pig finishes. Security is pulling back and my guests and I are all in the interior of the house like you said.”

      “Have everyone hit the floor! Now!” Bolan urged.

      The hillside lit up like doomsday. Six-foot gouts of fire blasted from the muzzles of the two massive weapons. They fired and fired again, methodically. Splinters fountained off the side of the lodge as huge projectiles tore through the treated timber like tissue. Bolan could hear men and women screaming through his headset. The two massive weapons on the hillside jackhammered holes in the side of Eckhart’s hunting retreat. Eckhart shouted in Bolan’s earpiece. “We’re under attack!”

      “On it!” Bolan raced along the hillside with Manning silently taking his six. “I’m going to flank! Pin ’em down on my signal!” he told Manning.

      Bolan split off and took the deer path that looped up behind the snipers’ position. The antitank rifles kept punching holes through the lodge. Bolan came to the pocket on the hillside and found killers intent on business. Two men were crouched behind the gigantic rifles aiming through the firing slit formed by the fallen trunks. The optics attached to the weapons were impressive and appeared to include small targeting computers. Two more men were assisting with loading magazines into the smoking weapons. One more man, who was obviously in command, was watching the besieged lodge through binoculars.

      The assassins should have had someone watching the back door.

      “Now!” Bolan said.

      Manning’s automatic rifle roared to life and the gunners and loaders froze in shock as bullets ripped across the tree trunks. The commander sensed something behind him and started to turn.

      Bolan spoke quietly. “Freeze.”

      The man dropped his binoculars on their strap and went for the Uzi slung by his side.

      The Beretta 93-R machine pistol in Bolan’s left hand walked a three-round burst up the commanding assassin’s chest. The .50 caliber Desert Eagle in Bolan’s right swung as the two loaders went for their submachine guns. They lost the tops of their heads for their trouble. The anti-materiel rifles were far too big to be wielded in close combat. The gunners dropped their weapons and went for their pistols. The Beretta trip-hammered one man’s head apart and Bolan took two strides forward to point the smoking machine pistol between the surviving assassin’s eyes. “Last chance. Take the pistol out with two fingers, left hand, and toss it away,” he said.

      The man stared down the muzzle of the Beretta and complied.

      “How many more?” the Executioner asked.

      The man gave the unwavering machine pistol a leery look but kept his mouth shut. Bolan chopped the Desert Eagle down and clubbed the man unconscious. “Manning, I have four hostiles down, one prisoner.”

      “I see no more activity on the hill from my end. You want me to come ahead?”

      “No, go down and let Eckhart know the situation seems to be contained. He’ll probably be pretty grateful. Try to pump him for anything useful before local law enforcement show up and start asking questions or his lawyers show up and start advising him. I’ll secure the prisoner. Then I’m going down the trail to see if I can locate their extraction point.

      “Copy that,” Manning said.

      2

      San Luis Obispo, California

      The Executioner connected his laptop computer to his secure satellite link and then leaned back on the hotel bed. He’d left Gary Manning with Eckhart for the last twenty-four hours to see if he could pick up any intel around the lodge while Kurtzman worked the angles from his end. Bolan had found an SUV on the back side of the hill. It had been rented in town under a false name. The prisoner wasn’t talking so local law enforcement had handed him over to the FBI.

      Bolan typed in a few codes and Aaron Kurtzman popped up on his screen in real time. “So what can you tell me about our buddy Eckhart?” Bolan asked.

      Kurtzman grinned on the screen. “Well, Gary says his spit-roasted wild boar is fantastic. He’s hot-tubbing with supermodels, drinking single malt Scotch and Eckhart calls him ‘good buddy.’”

      Bolan shook his head.

      “He also says that Eckhart really is a hell of a guy. Real regular Joe, for a billionaire,” Kurtzman added.

      “That’s what everyone seems to be saying,” Bolan replied.

      “I’ve been researching our man, and it seems to be true. For example, a few years back he invested in African diamond mines. He started dating a French actress who gave him the lecture about African blood diamonds and he completely divested himself of the business on his end and took a loss.”

      Bolan had to admit that was unusual for a captain of industry. “What else? There’s got to be some dirt on the man.”

      “Well…he likes to date models.”

      “Big deal,” Bolan said. “Anything else?”

      “Well…he’s always had a love affair with archaeology.”

      “Well, now we’ve got him.” Bolan folded his arms across his chest decisively.

      Kurtzman sighed. “I know. Hear me out. Amateur archaeology is his passion. The guy hands out grants like party favors to universities with red-hot archaeology departments. And if there’s one real boondoggle in his life, one place where he makes bad business choices, it’s archaeology. The man has thrown away some serious coin on far-flung digs and treasure hunts that went nowhere. Of course he can afford it, but we’re talking about a genuine addiction for digging around in the sandbox.”

      Bolan considered the information. “Bring up his guest list at the hunting lodge again.”

      Kurtzman clicked keys and the names and photos popped onto Bolan’s screen. He scanned them and pointed at a name. “Dr. Marcus Klein. Doctor of what?”

      Kurtzman searched. “Professor of classical archaeology, UC Berkeley.”

      “Not your average great white hunter,” Bolan said.

      “No.” Kurtzman’s craggy brow furrowed. “He’s a card-carrying member of PETA, actually.”

      “Something very intriguing must have made him ignore his scruples and attend a billionaire’s pig hunt in rural California.”

      “He wants a grant? A lot of academics do a lot of things they’re ashamed of to receive funding.”

      Bolan tapped another picture on his screen. “Who’s the blonde?” She had long straight hair, arched eyebrows, full lips and big white teeth. She looked curvaceous and was wearing a pink argyle sweater and pin-striped pants. Stylish square eyeglasses completed her look. She had the fulsome, librarian seductress look going to the hilt. “She’s not Eckhart’s usual Euro-lanky ice-queen girlfriend.”

      Kurtzman grinned. He was a man who appreciated a woman with curves. “That is Nancy Rhynman. Double major in archaeology and linguistics. Specializing in ancient Greek studies on the one hand and primate body language on the other.”

      “Primate body language?”

      “She wrote a thesis matching ape gestures, expressions and body language to humans. She speaks on the lecture circuit and gives corporate seminars on reading body language to help businesses get ahead.”

      “That’s got to pay more than the ancient Greeks.” Bolan’s eyes narrowed. “What is Professor Klein’s specialty?”

      Kurtzman smiled as he saw where this