Fireburst. Don Pendleton

Special Agent William “The Gorgon” Kirkland stood over six feet tall and appeared more than ready to repel Roman legionaries from his beloved homeland.

      Painfully clean-shaven, with a dimple in his lantern jaw, Kirkland had a suit of military body armor slung over a shoulder and was carrying a black nylon equipment bag that clanked with every step.

      “Bill,” Bolan said in greeting.

      “Prick,” Kirkland muttered in reply, then broke into a broad smile. “Damn, it’s good to you again. Even under these circumstances.”

      “Same here.” Bolan chuckled. This close, he could catch glimpses of military tattoos under the other man’s silk collar, and hidden up both sleeves. Having patched bulletholes in his friend, Bolan knew that Kirkland was covered with enough tattoos, some of them extremely unsuitable for public display, that he could have been an exhibit in one of his casino’s sideshows.

      “Okay, who do we kill?” Kirkland asked, shifting the body armor to a more comfortable position.

      “As ever, the soul of tact.” Bolan laughed, offering a hand.

      “Why change perfection?” Kirkland grinned as they shook.

      A passing waitress paused for a moment to smile openly at the two huge men, then sighed and walked away, but put a little more motion into her hind quarters than was normal.

      “I think she likes you,” Kirkland noted.

      “I think she knows you own the place.”

      “Cynic.”

      “Dreamer.”

      “But hey, it came true!” Kirkland gestured grandly with his free arm. “I own a casino! Welcome to Wild Bill’s Old West Palladium of Honest Cards, Easy Women and Cold Beer!”

      “Now called the Grand Imperial.”

      “A minor name change, I assure you.”

      “Love to hear the story,” Bolan said, checking his watch, “but we’re short on time. Are you ready to travel?”

      “Money, guns and passports, right here,” Kirkland said, jiggling the equipment bag.

      “Now why would a respectable citizen like yourself have need of more than one passport?” Bolan asked, suppressing a grin.

      “Believe it or not, there are a couple of countries where William ‘The Gorgon’ Kirkland wouldn’t be greeted with open arms.”

      “More like ‘open fire’?”

      “It has been known to happen,” Kirkland said with a shrug. “Okay, where to first, Sarge?”

      Bolan noted the change in address. “I have some supplies stored just outside of town, then I’ve arranged a very expensive off-the-grid flight to Miami,” Bolan said as he began walking around the statue. “We need to pick up an expert in advanced electronics.”

      “Sure, not a problem. I know a guy… Wait, did you say Miami?” Kirkland asked, stopping in his tracks. “Oh, no, you wouldn’t to do that to me.”

      Bolan said nothing.

      “Damn it, Sarge, you are a prick,” Kirkland growled, angrily starting forward once more. “Fine, okay, she can come! But if that crazy bitch ever mentions what happened in Hong Kong, I’ll take her over my knee for a bare-bottom spanking that’ll have her eating off a fireplace mantel for a week!”

      “I’d love to see that,” Bolan said. “Because immediately afterward, Heather would rip out your beating heart and shove it up your ass.”

      Kirkland grinned in memory. “Yeah, she’s something special, all right.”

      “One of the best knife fighters I’ve ever seen.”

      “And I have the scars to prove it!”

      “Me, too.”

      As the men exited the casino, Bolan saw that the staff had already brought around a Rolls-Royce, and a liveried chauffeur was holding open the rear door.

      “Not today, James, I’ll be slumming it with this hobo for a while,” Kirkland said in passing. “Don’t do anything on the Duesy until I get back.”

      “Whatever you say, sir,” James said in heavily accented English. “Any idea when that might be?”

      “None whatsoever.”

      “Very good, sir,” James said, closing the door to the Rolls. “Then I shall continue the modifications on the Lamborghini until your return.”

      “Good man.”

      “You own a Duesenberg?” Bolan asked, giving the ticket for the van to a valet.

      Casting a brief glance at Kirkland, the teenager bolted toward the parking garage as if his pants were on fire.

      “I have a few,” Kirkland boasted, then added, “Won the new one in a poker game. Okay, she’s a total wreck, but Jimmy and I will get it running again. He’s a wizard at remanufacturing antique parts.”

      “Nice to have a hobby,” Bolan said cautiously, then felt compelled to add, “Bill, maybe you shouldn’t come along on this. It could get rough.”

      “Rougher than Afghanistan, Beirut or the Congo?”

      “Maybe,” Bolan admitted, “and you’ve been pushing papers for a long time.”

      In a blur, Kirkland pulled a Webley .455 revolver from inside his jacket, only to see that Bolan had a Beretta out and ready.

      “You were saying?” Kirkland asked coolly.

      “Never mind,” Bolan replied, holstering the weapon.

      Just then, the van arrived. Bolan unlocked the rear doors and Kirkland stowed his equipment inside.

      As Bolan got behind the wheel, Kirkland climbed in the passenger side and closed the door. “Okay, we’re alone now,” he said, pulling out the Webley to start loading the empty revolver. “Start talking.”

      “How much do you know about lightning?” Bolan asked, pulling away from the curb to merge into the busy stream of traffic.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Mumbai, India

      A hard cold rain pelted the sprawling expanse of the eastern metropolis. Thunder constantly rumbled, and sheet lightning flashed from cloud to cloud, occasionally hitting the ground in a blazing display of nature unbridled.

      Glistening skyscrapers of glass and steel dominated the vast landscape of gated homes, stores and tar-paper shacks. Freight trains moved slowly along the complex network of railroads, and the mighty Ganges River was high, threatening at any moment to overflow its banks and flood the city.

      Washed clean by the unrelenting downpour, the downtown streets were nearly empty of merchants and tourists, unusual for the teeming city. The day’s accumulation of trash was gone, flushed into the wide drains, and the traffic was reduced to taxicabs, trolley cars and the mandatory army of unstoppable bike messengers. Only the street people remained.

      Music came from a hundred locations: tea shops, taverns, restaurants, discotheques, open apartment windows and electronics stores blaring their latest acquisitions to the world. In the hills, a wedding party continued full-force, undampened by the weather, a cadre of eunuchs dressed as women dancing in front of the house to wish the new couple good luck. Down by the busy docks, a Bollywood crew was frantically trying to film a sequel to an unexpectedly popular science fiction movie.

      A gantry rose high above the crew, technicians, stunt men and government safety inspectors checking the rig attached to the hero. The maze of wires were all painted dark green so that a computer could easily remove them in the lab.

      “Are we ready?” the director said into a hand mike, the words booming