Outback Assault. Don Pendleton

no one raises a stink about the old man’s home burning. If possible, report him dead,” Yeung stated.

      “I’ve got everything hushed up,” Crown answered. “But without a body—”

      Yeung interrupted, holding his frustration in check. “Do what you can. I’ve got a troubleshooter coming in to help out with this.”

      “I can pass most of this off on bigots getting drunk and riled, but an organized assassin…” Crown began.

      “If you had done your job the way I wanted you to, none of this would have been necessary. Since you couldn’t evict these people, just be glad I need a mouthpiece among local law enforcement. Otherwise, we’d be using your bones as that old man,” Yeung snapped. “Got that?”

      Crown clenched his jaw but nodded in quiet agreement.

      “Don’t fuck with me. I know where you live,” Yeung snarled. He turned and got back in his SUV. His cell phone warbled and he plucked it from his pocket.

      “Bobby, our man picked up his ticket and boarded his flight.” The call was from Frankie Law, his right-hand man. “Our troubles are over.”

      “I’d like to think so, Frankie,” Yeung replied. “But the situation’s just gotten a little more complicated. The Abos who were straining at the leash finally slipped out of sight. At least one of them is on the way to civilization.”

      “I’ll get our boys on the street. What’s the description?” Law asked.

      “Five feet, black, about eighteen. Fairly cute for a little black girl,” Yeung stated.

      “Damn, not the chick,” Law said.

      “You’ve got a problem with that?” Yeung inquired.

      “I just wanted a little taste. She was nicer than you let on,” Law replied.

      “Find her and kill her when you’re done,” Yeung ordered. “These fuckers have given me enough headaches. “Just find the little bitch and deliver her head to me. Keep the rest for whatever you want.”

      “Kinky.” Law chuckled.

      “Dammit, Frankie!” Yeung said. It was too late. His head man in Darwin had hung up.

      Yeung put the phone away, looking out the window.

      When he’d been asked to set up a major transportation hub and processing center for the triad’s heroin pipeline, Yeung had jumped at the chance. It would be his ticket to the top of the heap in Hong Kong. Now, a year later, he was sick of the outback, sick of the Aborigines and the ugly, inbred whites with their mush-mouthed butchering of the English language, and he was sick of being stuck on the ass of the planet. He was a city boy. He wanted to be back among skyscrapers and neon lights and bodies packed together like sardines, with loud music, cigarette smoke and perfumed whores jammed in around him, pawing over his senses.

      The facility was operating at half capacity, but once it was running at full power, he’d be called back to Hong Kong to be given an opportunity to rise up the ladder.

      All it would take would be a few more dead Aborigines, and he would have the facility operating with impunity.

      He was glad that the triad’s assassin was coming to fix it all.

      3

      Bolan got off the plane, eyes sharp for the presence of any members of the Black Rose Triad who would be at the airport to greet him. If they knew Wade Augustyn by sight, they would know something was wrong. His carry-on was only loaded with clothes. He’d be unarmed in the face of a mobster offensive. Under other circumstances that wouldn’t be a problem, but in an airport full of civilians, any delay in neutralizing armed opposition would increase the risk of bystanders being gunned down.

      Since no Chinese gunmen popped out of the woodwork, Berettas blazing, Bolan felt secure going to the public lockers. He felt under the one he’d been directed to in the attachment to the e-mail containing the electronic ticket he’d ridden in on. The key was taped under a metal lip, and he plucked it free. Inside the locker were two envelopes. One was a large manila, stuffed with what looked like a file. The other was a smaller padded envelope containing a cellular phone. Bolan tucked the file into his carry-on and retrieved the phone. He hit the speed dial.

      “Finally made it,” came the voice on the other end.

      “I was just getting back from other business,” Bolan said, imitating Augustyn’s voice.

      When Bobby Yeung spoke again, he gave no indication of noting any difference. “Say no more. How long will it take for you to get equipped for your safari?”

      “Give me till dusk to get what I need,” Bolan said.

      “Good. We’ve got a situation. We might need you prowling in Darwin first. I’ve got my people out and about, but…”

      Bolan walked over to a table in the concourse food court and took a seat. He pulled out the file and set it before him, opening it. “There’s a picture of them in my file?”

      “Naturally,” the Black Rose man said.

      “Which one?” Bolan asked.

      “The girl. She escaped, and we need to put her down fast.”

      “You can’t find her?” Bolan pressed. He looked at the young woman. She was pretty, with big beautiful brown eyes. The name scrawled in the margin of the photo was Arana Wangara. It was right next to a photograph of an older man labeled Grandfather Wangara. In red marker, across Grandfather’s face, was written Troublemaker.

      “She disappeared in Alice Springs. We had hoped to catch up with her, but—”

      “But they didn’t think that she could blend in with a crowd because she was just an Abo, right?”

      The Chinese mobster chuckled. Bolan’s derision of his people’s bigoted arrogance wasn’t lost on him. “It wasn’t my people. We’d had a couple of thick-headed whites doing the legwork. I’ll have some real talent searching the bus stations in Darwin—including you.”

      “If you’ve got your act together, what do you need me for?” Bolan asked.

      “Because I’m still stuck in the middle of absolute nowhere. And I need someone smart making sure this little chickie is put down,” the triad spokesman said.

      “I don’t do bus station detail,” Bolan replied. “Even in Australia, there’s too much of a urine smell.”

      “How about you roll up a few thousand yen and stick them up your damn nose to filter out the piss-stink?” the Chinese bartered.

      “A few thousand yen’s pocket change,” Bolan countered.

      “Dollars?” the gangster offered.

      “Pounds sterling,” Bolan said.

      “You’re killin’ me!” Yeung exclaimed.

      “You should be so important,” Bolan warned. “Come to think of it, why are we killing a young woman?”

      “Because she’s a liability,” the mobster explained, sounding as if he were talking to a child.

      “Well, if you want me to bust my ass for a week hunting down Grandpa Abo, you’re paying by the day,” Bolan reminded him. “Frankly, I’d rather make my job easier.”

      The Chinese man hissed in frustration. “Can you get this kind of information out of the girl?”

      “Only if she stays alive,” Bolan admonished. “And stays healthy.”

      “Healthy,” the mob boss repeated.

      “As in untouched. If she goes catatonic because some of your boys took a piece, my work is going to be a lot harder. And they personally won’t like me when I have to work harder,” Bolan growled. “Got it?”

      “You