Slayground. Don Pendleton

had invaded the bank. The fact that they had taken him out so ruthlessly and efficiently suggested that they knew what they were doing, and that they were professional enough to have done their research. This gave the soldier two warnings: one, that they were not going to be caught out on their home turf that easily, and two, that they had sources of information in at least one town in the county. Either that or a source that could cover the whole county...a source such as the sheriff’s office.

      Bolan didn’t want anyone to get a scent of who he was or why he was in the area. That meant the press, the Seven Stars themselves, and maybe even the local law enforcement.

      Extract the target before her value—other than her human value—became a known commodity. Extract her with a minimum of disruption and consequent attention.

      If he was going to do this, he would need more than just a handgun, and he knew where to get ordnance without raising questions or creating ripples in the swamp waters.

      Bolan took the first turnoff on the road out of Miami, which would take him to Kendall. It was one of the smaller cities in the Miami metropolitan area, but it was still big enough to have more than its fair share of criminal activity, and not so small that being there would attract any undue attention.

      Kendall had a number of housing projects and run-down inner-city areas where businesses and homes had gone to the wall, leaving gangs and street corner crime in their wake. But it also had some areas of regeneration that had sprung up before the double dip recession had hit, and in these areas, entrepreneurs had made some good out of the bad. Suburbs that were buoyed by these pockets of cash still had manicured lawns and stucco one-story haciendas with well-maintained pools. It was into one of these areas that Bolan piloted his rented Ford, pulling up before a house whose address he’d had to check with Stony Man. It had been a long time, and maybe his contact had moved. A large sum from one of Bolan’s war chests had also been wired into a bank account connected to the cards he had picked up. He would probably need it.

      Leaving the sedan, Bolan walked across the lawn and through the open side gate. He could hear laughter and voices from the backyard. Three teenage girls in bikinis were frolicking in the pool, splashing each other and laughing. A bony man with cropped graying hair, clad in an orange robe, sat under an umbrella sipping iced tea.

      As Bolan approached, the man spoke without turning around. “You’d better have an appointment, old chap. If not, then a lawyer and a doctor, though maybe not in that order.”

      “Knock knock,” Bolan replied. “If I knew appointments were necessary these days, I would have called. And you can tell your shadow he can drop the piece. If you still talk in those terms. A Glock semi, right? He’d better be accurate if he wants to be stupid, because I’ll bet I’m quicker.”

      “Matt Cooper,” the man murmured in an immaculate—if fake—British accent. “How nice to hear from you again. I always like returning customers, even if they do take several years to come back. Carl,” he added in a louder voice, “do as the man says. He’s not given to exaggerating. And please learn to be a little more discreet.”

      Bolan glanced over his shoulder. Through the open patio door he could see a man in a floral shirt and shorts lower his gun with a sour glance at the soldier. Bolan allowed himself a small grin. Nothing wrong with his peripheral vision.

      “Don’t be too hard on him, Yates,” Bolan said. “Not many men would have noticed him there.”

      “It only takes one, dear boy,” Yates said, languidly rising from his chair and turning to face the soldier. “You’ve worn well, I’ll give you that. Better than I have. Better than anyone in our business has a right to.”

      “You’re still alive,” Bolan countered. “That’s all that counts. And you’re still pretending to be English.”

      “I am English. At least, my father was. I might have been born in Chicago, but my blood is that of the aristocracy, not the Mafia.”

      “I’ll take your word for it.” Bolan shrugged. “This is a pool party, is it?” he added, gesturing toward the girls.

      “My daughter. Her mother was my maid. I think she’s back in Mexico now, though I really don’t care. I like her friends to come over.”

      “That’s sweet,” Bolan said heavily. “Now, if you don’t mind, much as I’d like to chew the fat, I’m here to do business.”

      “Of course.” Yates gestured toward the house. Leaving the girls to continue splashing around, seemingly oblivious to the men’s activities, Bolan went in through the patio doors.

      Inside, the house was richly furnished in whites and creams, with splashes of purple from the drapes, rugs and cushions. It had a feminine touch.

      “Carl, stop looking so pissed off and let Mr. Cooper through. He was always a good customer,” Yates said in an almost prissy tone. From the way Carl deferred to him, with a barely concealed petulance, Bolan wondered how the hell the faux Englishman had ever managed to conceive a daughter.

      “He doesn’t look much like a Carl,” Bolan remarked as they descended the stairs hidden by inset shelves. The walls were decorated with hangings depicting historical battles, and as they reached the basement he could see that the heavy oak desk and cases of weapons were more in keeping with the man as he knew him than the decor upstairs. A plasma-screen TV and a laptop were the only signs of the twenty-first century on display. A glass-fronted bookcase contained a large number of old books in lurid dust jackets.

      “He isn’t. That’s just my little conceit. I call him Carl Petersen, just as I call myself Dornford Yates. The IRS call both of us something else completely. Or at least they would if they could find us.”

      “Touching, I’m sure. But that’s none of my concern.”

      “Don’t mind me, I just like to keep the personal touch,” Yates murmured, leading Bolan through an aperture into the three connected rooms that housed the illegal ordnance that had paid for Yates’s luxury.

      Two things came to Bolan’s mind as he followed. The first was that the supposed “personal touch” was an intriguing ruse. Yates was in a position to extract secrets from his customers that would no doubt be useful as leverage, or playing one buyer against the other. The second was more practical: Florida was one of the most waterlogged states in America. Although many richer homes had panic rooms and bunkers, shoring up a basement complex this large must have been expensive and disruptive. To do this unremarked spoke of Yates’s ability to snake out tentacles of influence. Another time, and Bolan would maybe have to take him out of the game. But not now. There was other work to be done.

      Bolan filled two duffel bags with grenades and plastic explosives, a Steyr and ammunition, a micro-Uzi with spare clips and an HK with the same. He had to balance the need for firepower with the need for speed and moving light. As he left the house with the bags, Carl shadowed him, to make sure he did so without delay. Bolan cast an eye toward the girls in the pool and wondered if they had any idea how their friend’s father paid for all this—and whether they would even care if they did know.

      Carl watched the soldier get into the sedan and pull out. Bolan could see him in his rearview mirror as he turned off the quiet suburban street, and he felt a prickle at the back of his neck. Instinct was an inexact science, but it had kept him alive long enough for him not to ignore it.

      * * *

      AS THE SEDAN moved out of sight, Carl went into the backyard, closing the gate behind him. He called out to the girls to make sure they kept it shut, before moving back through the house and down to the basement. Yates was seated at his desk, staring into space.

      “I don’t like him,” Carl said without preamble.

      “We don’t have to like them, we just have to like their money,” Yates replied. “Frankly, I don’t like any of them. But you’re right about Cooper. Terrible name, obviously made up by some desk monkey with no imagination. No man who was completely in the fold would ever need to use a dealer like myself to supply his needs. However, someone who was working