Outback Assault. Don Pendleton

had been made from stamped steel, the VEPR was made of stronger metal, with a stronger bolt, designed for firing prolonged bursts from extended light-machine-gun-sized magazines. On single shot, it would handle the .300 Magnum rounds just fine. The wooden AK furniture had been replaced by desert camouflage reinforced fiberglass. He attached a scope and test fired. With the rifle set to a “point-blank” of 200 yards, at a mere 25 yards he knew how high the first shot should hit. The test impact was within millimeters of Bolan’s estimation, and he reset the scope.

      The balance was almost perfect, though the shoulder stock was a little short for his long arms. It would do, he thought, and looked to Red.

      “If you’re going to pretend to be Wade, you should be a little more finicky,” the store owner said.

      Bolan tensed.

      “Don’t worry. You’re still a paying customer, but you should realize, Eugene contacted me,” Red stated.

      “So why aren’t you worried about me?” Bolan asked, using his normal voice.

      Red pointed to the bag. “Because if you were going to try to kill me, there’s enough weaponry in there to take me and my boys out.”

      Bolan was aware that the other two shooters on the line had stopped firing and were glancing at him.

      “You could have given me dummy ammunition,” Bolan stated. “Or sealed off the rounds in separate containers, like you did with the rifle.”

      “The magazines for the pistols are empty,” Red explained. “But even so, you’ve got a pair of good working knives in there. If you’re good enough to take down Wade in hand-to-hand, the revolver in my pocket wouldn’t be worth much against you.” The black-market dealer pulled a small Smith & Wesson Centennial from his pocket and set it on a counter.

      “You’re right. I am a paying customer. And the only reason I’d mix it up with you and your boys would be if you made a move against me,” Bolan stated honestly.

      “Face-to-face, you’re very convincing. Good acting,” Red complimented him. “But if Eugene has blown your cover to me…”

      “He might try to contact the Black Rose Triad and let them know that I’m not the man they hired,” Bolan said. “I’d hoped to give him a chance to go straight.”

      “Wade hired Eugene because the twerp is the same type of soulless bastard that he was,” Red explained. “You just cleared the deck for Eugene to take charge of all Wade’s assets, and maybe even hire a replacement for him.”

      “So what’s your interest in warning me about all this?” Bolan asked.

      “I don’t do a lot of illicit business,” the arms dealer replied. “I try to sell to otherwise law-abiding folks who know they can’t count on a government to guard them. A lot of the time, it’s guns for folks going to someplace really dangerous, like Jakarta, the Philippines or Thailand, where the thugs don’t care about gun-control laws and are just looking for white-skinned Aussies because they know we’re soft prey.”

      Bolan nodded. “Wade was an aberration?”

      “He had the goods on me. He passed himself off as a stand-up guy, and after he made a couple of kills, he kept the weapons and the bill of sale. If I held out on him, he’d let the government know, and they’d shut me down cold,” Red told him. “My arse was on the line.”

      “So you never got paid,” Bolan said.

      “I was paid a token amount, enough to keep me implicated in newer hits he performed with the stuff I gave him,” Red answered. “The paper trail would sink me.”

      Bolan nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

      “How do you know I’m not giving you a cock-and-bull?” Red asked.

      “Because you know I’m not the type to just hand you over to the law,” Bolan answered.

      He checked the contents of the pistol rugs. One contained a 9 mm Walther P-99 QA. The polymer-framed pistol was flat, and had interchangeable back straps for its grip and felt good in Bolan’s hand. He popped the medium-sized grip and put in the extra-large version. The P-99’s Quick Action trigger was a relatively light double-action pull, feeling more like a Glock than anything. The smooth, straight pull provided antiflinch safety but was light enough for fine accuracy. Despite its light weight and compact size, the weapon still held sixteen rounds in its magazine with another pill in the chamber. The barrel was threaded, and there was a sound suppressor for the smaller handgun. “I didn’t have a PPK for Wade…”

      “That’s okay. I like this,” Bolan answered.

      The other pistol rug held a long-barreled .44 Magnum Raging Bull revolver, by Taurus. It was an acceptable substitute for the Executioner’s usual Desert Eagle. Bolan dry-fired, testing the trigger pull. It was as smooth as butter, and Bolan didn’t doubt that the mass of the revolver would soak up recoil as easily as the gas mechanism of his preferred Desert Eagle.

      “I smoothed out all the linkages but didn’t change the pull weight,” Red explained. “It’ll pop any of its caps reliably, once you return the firing pin to operation.”

      “If I were going for a snatch and grab, I’d plop a few shells into the revolver and start shooting. Smart man.”

      “No. Paranoid myself…and like you said, I’m still alive.”

      “Alive, and richer,” Bolan said. “Where’s the firing pin?”

      Red tossed him a small plastic bag. The Executioner replied by handing him a thick roll of money.

      “You don’t need to,” the store owner said.

      “I pay my own way,” Bolan stated.

      Red nodded. “Eugene might try to do something to take care of me when he finds out I didn’t burn you down.”

      Bolan took out his cell phone, sending a quick e-mail off to Stony Man Farm. “I’ll make arrangements that will shield you. Congratulations on becoming a confidential informant for the United States Justice Department. You’re involved in a sting to take down a killer for hire.”

      Red raised an eyebrow. “Against Eugene Waylon?”

      Bolan nodded.

      “So anything he says will be ignored by the authorities?” Red asked. “What if he turns the triad onto me?”

      “That won’t be a problem,” Bolan told him. He’d already installed the firing pin in the Raging Bull revolver and loaded it with six rounds. He zipped it back into its pistol rug. “I’m here to make certain of that. All of Augustyn’s loose ends, including Waylon, will be taken care of.”

      He began setting up the Walther and its shoulder holster. “Just be sure to stay on your toes until I contact you that everything is in the clear,” Bolan said, thumbing rounds into the P-99.

      “No kidding,” Red replied. He put the Centennial back in his pocket. “Good luck, Mr….”

      Bolan shook his head. “Luck has nothing to do with it. And the less you know, the better.”

      Red held out his hand, and the two men shook. Bolan explored the Australian’s eyes for signs of deceit, finding nothing. Not like the terrified traitor he’d left behind in Hong Kong.

      EUGENE WAYLON KNEW that it wouldn’t take the big bastard long to meet up with Red. He’d toyed with the idea of calling the Darwin police department to let them know about an arms deal going down in their backyard, but he knew the cops might not be enough to take down the man who’d reduced Wade Augustyn to a bloody pulp in the middle of his own living room.

      Besides, calling the police wasn’t in Waylon’s repertoire. He did get on the horn, however. Not to the Chinese. If the Black Rose Triad had learned that their safe, sanitized Western assassin was permanently out of action and replaced by a fake, Waylon knew that his own