Raw Fury. Don Pendleton

for the locals to work out for themselves.”

      “As I said, it would be,” Brognola told him, “if not for Malaysia’s somewhat delicate diplomatic involvement in Southeast Asia.”

      “And that is?” Bolan asked.

      “For all its faults internally,” Brognola said, “Fahzal’s government has been a very strong one. Malaysia is doing well economically and, until now, the nation has been very stable. Malaysia’s neighbors are anything but stable at the moment. Border tensions between Thailand and Cambodia are threatening to spill over into Burma and further destabilize that country, which is having its own problems getting along with its rival and neighbor, Bangladesh. Fahzal’s government has extended feelers to both Burma and Bangladesh to see if it can help mediate the dispute, and they’ve been asked, not for the first time, to play diplomatic go-between for the Thais and Cambodians. As far as we can tell, it’s working, too. Fahzal’s diplomatic corps has managed to get all the parties to their respective tables for a series of premeeting confabs, ironing out the ground rules for the eventual peace talks.”

      “What does Fahzal get from all of that?” Bolan asked.

      “It makes him look like a big wheel on the international scene,” Brognola said. “If Malaysia can orchestrate a lessening of tensions among its neighbors, it can stabilize the entire area. That’s good for its economy, good for Fahzal’s reputation, good for the nation’s status around the globe and good for Fahzal’s chances of reelection. Plus he gets invited to all of the best UN parties.”

      “I can imagine,” Bolan said without humor.

      “There’s a Chinese and Indian ethnic ghetto, of sorts, that has sprung up over the last year roughly equidistant from Petaling Jaya and Kuala Lumpur,” Brognola said. “It’s not pretty—conditions are terrible, and the residents have been deliberately herded there by pressure exerted through Fahzal’s government and his internal security forces. Those forces are hired thugs who answer only to Fahzal and a control hierarchy loyal to him. They’re colloquially referred to as the Padan Muka. I’m told it translates to something like, ‘Serves you right.’”

      “Charming,” Bolan said.

      “Fahzal has dispatched the Padan Muka to roust ethnic Chinese and Indian Malays throughout Kuala Lumpur and its satellite urban areas,” Brognola said. “It’s getting bad, and it’s going to get worse. If Jawan bin Aswan Fahzal is not returned unharmed Fahzal and the Padan Muka are threatening to raze that ghetto. Specifically, they’re going to firebomb it out of existence and murder everyone within it. Padan Muka forces and Malaysian firefighters are being stationed around the perimeter of the ghetto. Nobody’s being let in or out.”

      “I think I see where you’re going with this,” Bolan said. “Fahzal and his government are the linchpin.”

      “Exactly right,” Brognola said. “Bad as he is, the stability of Fahzal’s government is vital to the stability of Southeast Asia. If Fahzal gives the order to kill those people, it’s going to touch off an ethnic civil war in Malaysia. That could spread to the neighboring nations, but even if it doesn’t, Malaysia’s inability to mediate the border disputes between its neighbors will probably lead to Thailand, Cambodia, Burma and Bangladesh falling to each other’s throats again. The entire region will destabilize, and I don’t have to tell you that it could have a far-reaching impact for the rest of the world.”

      Bolan lowered his voice, to be certain the cabbie would not overhear—though this did not seem likely over the road noise, the howl of the cab’s much-abused engine and the cabbie’s own stream-of-consciousness swearing, intent as he was on earning his lavish tip. “So I just have to stop BR from destabilizing the country, rescue Fahzal’s son so Fahzal won’t commit mass murder and prop up a potentially genocidal regime because to do otherwise would lead to widespread economic and political unrest throughout the entire region.”

      “And you have to do it,” Brognola said without missing a beat, “while dealing with Fahzal’s people, who will be trying to kill you the whole time.”

      “And that is because?”

      “The CIA has certain networks and assets in Malaysia,” Brognola said. “One of them will act as your guide when you hit the ground. We believe we can trust him. But chances are that Fahzal’s people know about him and will, by extension, know about you as soon as your plane hits the tarmac. We’ve got no official standing in Malaysia, Striker. They tolerate our involvement only grudgingly, and then only because Fahzal isn’t quite ready to earn the enmity of the United States directly.”

      “Then he should stay out of my way,” Bolan commented.

      “The CIA’s network in Malaysia is…porous…at best,” Brognola said. “They’ll know why you’re there, and they won’t give a damn that you’re trying to help. Fahzal’s out to prove his country can compete with the big boys. He won’t want you there. We suspect he’s got plenty to hide that he doesn’t want us to know. We believe he’s concerned about what a random element—you—might be able to uncover. He’ll be looking to put you in an unmarked grave somewhere in the countryside just as fast as he can make and take you.”

      “The Man must know that it’s going to get bloody, if that’s the playing field,” Bolan said. “I may have to work around Fahzal’s government in order for the country to remain stable, but I’m not going to pull any punches if his people are trying to kill me.”

      “Nor should you,” the big Fed said. “Make no mistake, Striker. We want you to do what you do. Just make sure at the end of the day that the country doesn’t explode. Stop BR. Stop Fahzal without taking him down completely. I’ll be working from here to handle the rest, behind the scenes. Just keep the peace, however you have to do it. That’s the goal.”

      “All right, then, Hal,” Bolan had said. “Just get me there.”

      “Your tickets will be waiting at the counter,” Brognola said. “Good hunting, Striker.”

      And that had been that.

      Now, Bolan was in another cab, a world away from the streets of New York, in the middle of a bustling city that was no less vibrant—and far more dangerous, for him.

      “Mr. Cooper,” Rosli said, breaking Bolan from his reverie, “I believe we have a problem.”

      “The two taxis following us?” Bolan asked. He had been watching through the side mirror. The two cars had been trailing them since they left the airport.

      “Yes,” Rosli said, grinning. “You do not disappoint me, Mr. Cooper. They are moving up.”

      The two trailing car increased their speed, suddenly, horns bleating to clear other traffic as the twin vehicles moved up on either side of Rosli’s cab. Bolan glanced left, then right, and had just enough time to see the muzzles of the submachine guns poking from the open windows of the two cars.

      “Break left, now!” Bolan ordered.

      Rosli shot him a glance, not understanding.

      Bolan reached out and grabbed the steering wheel.

      As the cab’s tires squealed in protest and the vehicle careened toward the fender of the leading enemy, the submachine gunners in the trailing cars opened up, spraying Rosli’s cab with gunfire.

      The crash was deafening.

      2

      The sound of rending metal and shattering glass was nothing the Executioner hadn’t heard before. As Rosli’s cab ground its nose into the side of the closest of the pursuing cars, Bolan kicked at his door savagely. It took three kicks to force the tortured passenger-side door open, but then he was hitting the pavement rolling as the two crippled vehicles shed their momentum, limped across the street and collided with the far-side curb. Bolan’s .44 Magnum Desert Eagle was in his fist as he rounded on the wrecked enemy vehicle.

      He caught sight of movement from inside the taxi and began