Survival Reflex. Don Pendleton

me.”

      “How would I do that?”

      “You could show me some ID,” Bolan suggested. “Maybe tell me why you’ve been tailgating me since I left the hotel.”

      The second spook had worked up nerve enough to speak. He said, “Hey, now!” before his partner cut him off.

      “You’ve got some nerve,” the leader said. “I’ll give you that.”

      “Your boss left that part out when he was briefing you, I guess,” Bolan replied.

      “My boss?”

      “Downey.”

      The two men blinked as one. “I don’t know anybody by that name,” the leader said, too late.

      “So, he won’t miss you, then.”

      “Miss who?” The second spook had trouble keeping pace.

      “We’re going now,” the leader said. “Have a nice day.”

      “I don’t think so.”

      They telegraphed the rush with sidelong glances, back and forth. Not certain what to do, now that their crude surveillance had backfired, the pair surrendered to machismo. Bolan saw it coming and was ready when it got there.

      Number one, the mouthpiece, led his partner by six feet or so, looking to tackle Bolan, taking him down and maybe thumping him for a while before he tired of it and left.

      It didn’t quite work out that way.

      The Executioner dropped to a fighting crouch at the last second, while his adversary’s thick arms closed on empty air. He fired a rabbit punch into the spook’s short ribs and heard him grunt with pain as he was doubling over. No time to evaluate the damage as he drove a rising knee into the stranger’s nose and flattened it across his florid face.

      The leader dropped to hands and knees, while Bolan turned to face his sidekick. Number two was growling as he sprang toward Bolan, one arm cocked to throw a mighty haymaker. If it had landed, Bolan would’ve been in trouble, but he ducked the punch instead, seized the extended arm and used his enemy’s momentum as a weapon, flinging him to earth.

      The spook went down, then came up cursing, red-faced, instantly forgetting most of what his martial-arts instructor would’ve taught him during basic training. What he tried and failed to execute was a high kick toward Bolan’s face.

      Bad move.

      It was a simple thing to block the kick and grab his ankle, twist it sharply, and kick through the knee of his remaining leg where it supported him. This time, when he went down, the spook was squealing in pain.

      Bolan turned back to number one and found him struggling to his feet, blood streaming from his broken nose to stain his white dress shirt.

      “Bathtid,” he growled. “Ahm gawn kitchur ath.”

      Bolan feinted a swing, then caught him with a roundhouse kick behind one ear. The guy went down, poleaxed, and hit the ground this time without a whimper.

      Leaving one.

      His backup had rolled to the garbage bin, clutching one rusty side as he struggled to drag himself upright. It was painful to watch, and he was wasting precious time.

      Bolan chose his spot, the base of the skull, and aimed his elbow shot for maximum effect without the killer follow-through. It dropped his man, inert, and he was pure deadweight as Bolan hoisted him into the bin. Moments later, when the two spooks lay together on a bed of reeking garbage, Bolan dropped the bin’s lid and left them to their troubled dreams.

      Sleep tight.

      Don’t let the slum rats bite.

      No one appeared to notice Bolan as he walked back to his car. He found it at the curb, untouched, and saw the black American sedan parked on the far side of the street. It might still be there when the two spooks woke and crawled out of the garbage bin.

      Then again, it might not be.

      Too bad.

      Still watching out for tails, he joined the flow of traffic and set off to see a man about some combat gear.

      THE DEALER’S SHOP was half a mile from where Bolan had left his two incompetent shadows. Out front, bilingual signs offered repair of watches, small appliances and such. Inside, a man of middle age was hunched over a cluttered workbench, peering at the guts of an electric motor through a jeweler’s loupe. He glanced up as a cow bell clanked to signal Bolan’s entry and set down his screwdriver.

      “Boa tarde, Senhor.”

      “Fala inglês?” Bolan asked, thus exhausting his Portuguese vocabulary.

      “English, yes, I speak. How may I help you?” Bolan spoke the phrase Blancanales had provided, watching as the merchant’s face registered first surprise, then caution.

      “Ah. You wish to see my special stock?”

      “That’s right,” Bolan confirmed.”

      “One moment, please.”

      The shopkeeper rose from his stool and limped past Bolan to the door, which he locked while reversing a small cardboard sign.

      “Is siesta time now,” he explained with a smile. “You will please follow me.”

      Bolan trailed him through a curtained doorway to a tiny, cluttered storeroom, where another door opened on steep wooden stairs. The proprietor descended first, taking the stairs without complaint despite his limp. Bolan followed into another storeroom, this one spotless and smelling of gun oil.

      Bolan could’ve launched a small war with the dealer’s inventory, but he had no plans to mount a grand offensive. He passed on the heavy machine guns, rocket and grenade launchers, and the Barrett M-82 A-1 Light Fifty sniper rifle. In their place, he chose a Steyr AUG assault rifle, a Beretta 92-F semiauto pistol and a Ka-Bar combat knife. Spare magazines and ammunition, with a side order of frag grenades, completed his heavy-metal shopping list. The rest came down to camouflage fatigues, web gear, an Alice pack and shoulder rig for the Beretta, two canteens and sturdy hiking boots. The purchases filled two stout duffel bags and took a fair bite out of Bolan’s bankroll, but he didn’t quibble over price.

      The money, strictly speaking, wasn’t even his.

      Before leaving the States, he’d tapped a San Diego crack dealer for sixty thousand dollars and some pocket change. Six different banks had sold him nine grand worth of AmEx traveler’s checks, and thus avoided mandatory red flags to the IRS. The rest had funded Bolan’s flights, the rented car and his unused hotel room where his bag and civvies were waiting to be seized by someone from the Company.

      He hoped the clothes turned out to be a lousy fit.

      Before packing the gear, he loaded the Beretta and two spare magazines, adjusted the quick-draw harness to fit his torso, and covered the setup with his windbreaker. The waning day outside was cool enough, here on the coast, to prevent him from standing out by the jacket alone. After he cleared Cuiabá, farther in-country, concealment of his weapons would no longer be an issue.

      Climbing the stairs behind the shop owner, Bolan slung one bag over his left shoulder and carried its mate in his left hand, leaving the right free for action if need be. He didn’t anticipate trouble this early, but in most cases preparedness was more than half the battle.

      Exiting the shop, he paused to scan the street in both directions, but aside from the neighborhood pusher, he saw no one who qualified as suspicious. Bolan walked back to his car and stowed both bags in the trunk, satisfied with the pistol for now. He would bag it, as well, when the time came to fly, but he still had hours to burn in Belém before his crack-of-dawn rendezvous with a charter pilot who asked no impertinent questions where payment in cash was concerned.

      Bolan used an hour of that time to scout the airstrip, studying the hangar and its layout on the drive-by.