Outback Assault. Don Pendleton

you think you can handle me?” Bolan asked. “Because if you can handle me, some old man shouldn’t be the top page of your hit list.”

      “That’s because they say he’s one of their shaman…whatevers. He walks in the Dreamtime or some such. Keeping up with him is impossible,” Yeung answered.

      “You called me in to exterminate fifteen unarmed Aboriginal activists,” Bolan said.

      “They’re not Chinese. What do we care?”

      “You got me. As long as I get my cash,” Bolan replied.

      “I’ll get a message to my boys,” Bobby Yeung replied. “You’ll get your bonus for catching the girl.”

      Bolan hung up the phone and examined the files after getting something to drink at one of the counters on the food court.

      From the description of the targets, it didn’t take the Executioner long to figure out that the triads were clearing a tract of land for a large facility, and the heads on the list were community activists trying to maintain their tribal lands. Considering the space being opened up by the Chinese mobsters, Bolan wouldn’t have put it past them to build an airport that would be a stopover to “sanitize” overseas shipments, a form of relay that would keep customs from looking too closely at repackaged contraband.

      It was a perfect setup for anything from knockoff goods to drugs. Remembering his basic knowledge of the Australian outback, and the fact that he was going to clean house a hundred or so miles from the famous Uluru mound, he’d be operating in a desert environment. The file requested that everything be made to look as if it were the act of a lone psychotic with a powerful hunting rifle.

      Bolan finished his drink, bought a sandwich wrap to go and switched to the cell phone he had taken from Eugene Waylon. It was programmed with Augustyn’s Darwin contacts.

      He flipped open the phone, and typed in a quick text message to the assassin’s arms dealer in northern Australia. The response was immediate.

      “Meet me in a half an hour.” An address was provided with the response. Bolan pocketed the phone and went to a shop for some items he knew he’d need for the upcoming meeting with the gun seller. It’d have to be enough until he got his hands on some real firearms.

      ARANA WANGARA GOT OFF the bus and kept her head low. She tried to blend in as a bored teenage tourist, keeping sullenly to herself as she tucked her knapsack tightly under her arm. Wangara scanned the crowd for signs of the Asian musclemen working for the mobsters who’d ordered her home torched.

      She’d loaded a couple of rocks in the bottom of her bag as a crude weapon. The weighted sack would at least knock a bad guy off his feet, if not break a jaw or cheekbone. It wasn’t a shotgun, but at least it was something. Seeing her unarmed might actually lull her hunters into a false sense of security that would give her a chance to upgrade to an actual firearm.

      Wangara clutched the strap of her bag tightly, eyes darting. Her grandfather had taught her how to use his rifle, a bolt-action Enfield from World War II, original ANZAC issue, and a pump shotgun. She’d even taken lives, dropping a marauding, sheep-killing dingo with the Enfield, as well as wild hogs. She’d learned that she could kill to protect lives, and while there was a difference between Chinese gangsters or bigoted Outback rednecks and a feral dog, the end result was the same.

      Violence against violence, to preserve life, she thought. If she fell, then the gangsters and their hired thugs would kill other members of the tribe to keep them silent about the activities on their stolen land. She certainly did not want to die, but she also knew living would be made hollow if she let down her grandfather.

      Wangara tucked her chin down against her chest and continued through the bus terminal, weaving in time with the crowd around her. Someone on the periphery of the group jerked his attention toward her, the sudden movement focusing Wangara like a laser on him. It was a young Asian man, wearing black sunglasses and a battered leather jacket too large for his slight frame, but with enough drape to hide a pair of sawed-off shotguns under its folds. She returned to staring at the floor, walking quickly to keep pace with the other tourists.

      The young Chinese man tried to push through the throng of departing bus riders, but Wangara was out the door and turning down the street. There was another Asian man outside, this one wearing an overly large jacket, except in denim. He reached under his lapel, watching her through his impenetrable shades. Wangara fought not to run, not to look at the gunman out of the corner of her eye.

      Acknowledgment of her hunters would give them the advantage. They were holding back, not quite sure if she was the prey they were seeking. If she bolted, or even if she glared at them too long to study them, they would be certain and act quickly to either restrain her or just pull their guns and fill her with holes.

      Wangara kept to the main street. The gangsters would be hesitant to act in the open, with so many witnesses around. The reason she was being hunted was to keep the triad’s scheme from being discovered. The blatant, public assassination of a young woman on the run from her Aboriginal tribal lands would draw attention like a lightning rod.

      The man with the denim jacket pulled out a cell phone and spoke into it. He turned it toward her, and Wangara knew she couldn’t suddenly look away, despite the fact that she knew he was using the cell’s camera attachment. She only hoped that the usually blurry distance shots would make her identification difficult, especially since the young mob tough was only able to catch an angled profile.

      It wasn’t much, but she was grateful for any advantage she had. The weight of the rocks in the bag on her shoulder gave her more reassurance, but nothing would last forever. Sooner or later, the man in the jean jacket would move in to make a final identification, and Wangara would have to fight or die.

      She hoped that her grandfather was right about the lone crusader.

      THE EXECUTIONER STOOD in the doorway of Red’s Sporting Supply, his eyes adjusting to the light.

      “Plastic surgery again?”

      Bolan scanned the small sporting goods store and saw an older man with a rust-colored crew cut and a nose that had been mashed flat in countless fights. Dark, hard eyes glared out from under a beetle brow as he evaluated the newcomer.

      Bolan nodded.

      “You’re paranoid, Wade,” Red said. “Come in the back.”

      “Sure,” Bolan replied, adopting Wade’s speech patterns, but speaking softly.

      “What’d you do to your throat?” the arms supplier asked.

      “Had the surgeon give it a few scrapes,” Bolan explained. “Change my voice just enough. Figured a new face isn’t any good without an altered voice.”

      “Like I said, Wade. Paranoid.”

      Bolan smiled. “I’m still alive.”

      Red laughed as they entered the back room. There was a door and from the other side, Bolan could hear muffled pops coming through a basement stairwell entrance. Signs on the windows out front had mentioned a public range, firearms rentals, as well as a storage fee for personally owned weapons. “I’ve got a bag ready for you, based on what you texted me.”

      Bolan nodded and walked over to the gym bag with the All Blacks logo on the side. He unzipped it, looking at a pair of pistol rugs and a short rifle case.

      “The rifle’s been broken down, but if you want to look at it, I’ll let you check it out on the range,” Red said. He tossed Bolan a pair of ear protectors and some shooting glasses.

      Bolan donned them and took the bag to the basement range.

      “Won’t be able to sight in at a distance,” Red said, following him down, wearing his own ear and eye protection.

      “I know how to zero based on close range,” Bolan replied as he opened the case. He assembled the weapon, recognizing it as a VEPR. Considering that the VEPR was a reengineered RPK machine gun, itself a derivative of