Raw Fury. Don Pendleton

to appear by magic in the alley. They wouldn’t have to; there had been plenty of civilians on the street, and Bolan could hear screams as alarmed pedestrians came upon the carnage.

      “Do you have any contacts in the police?” he asked.

      “None, I am afraid,” Rosli said as he shook his head. “Most are paid off by Fahzal’s people, and those that are not are corrupt enough in other ways. We dare not be caught. It will be as if these—” he jerked his chin at the dead men littering the alley “—caught us and took us away. It would be to our deaths.”

      “Who are they?” Bolan asked.

      “This one,” Rosli answered, pointing with the revolver to one of the dead men. “I do not know the others, but this one I recognize. I have seen him often enough, where Fahzal’s dirty work is to be done. I think he is a lieutenant of some kind.” He pointed to the other men. All were dressed in civilian clothes—loose-fitting tunics and light slacks similar to Rosli’s own. “Many times they wear the black-and-brown uniform. Not so now, but I recognize that one all the same. These men are Padan Muka, Fahzal’s private army. I can but assume they were sent to kill me, and, of course, anyone with me.”

      The Executioner paused to scoop up the jammed Beretta, throwing it into his shoulder bag. He put the Desert Eagle in there, as well. He made as if to search the closest of the dead men.

      “There is no time,” Rosli urged, grabbing his shoulder. “Come.” He released Bolan’s arm and they started walking quickly.

      “There is little we can do in Malaysia without the government knowing. There are many spies within our ranks. I trust a few, but not many. Too many of those I don’t are well aware of everything that occurs within the intelligence network here,” Bolan’s contact said.

      They were moving swiftly to the opposite end of the alley, and Bolan could hear the distinctive horns of what could only be police vehicles approaching in the distance. Rosli tucked away his revolver, arranging his shirt to cover the weapon in his waistband.

      “I’ve got to get to the school,” Bolan said. “We’re already burning time those kids don’t have.”

      “I know,” Rosli agreed and nodded. “It is not much farther. We go.”

      They emerged at the opposite end of the alley. The police sirens were growing louder, echoing after them. Rosli went to a line of small cars parked nearby and, without hesitation, smashed the window of the nearest one with the butt of his revolver. He reached in, hit the door locks and beckoned for Bolan to join him. The soldier slid into the passenger seat.

      Rosli wasted no words. He hammered the steering-column collar loose and began muttering to himself as he reached inside with both hands. The engine began to stutter and then finally caught. Rosli shook one hand absently as if he had been cut or shocked. He hit the accelerator and pushed them out into the traffic that was moving past. It had seemed to Bolan that no one passing by had given them a second glance as the CIA operative stole the car in broad daylight.

      “They will be calling the police,” Rosli said, as if reading his mind. “But they would not risk confronting us directly. Why do you think I used the gun? People are not anxious to be heroes here, Mr. Cooper, but neither do they tolerate wanton crime. We will not be able to use this car for long. The police will be given the license plate and description, I have no doubt. It does not matter. We need not go far.”

      Bolan nodded.

      As Rosli drove, Bolan opened the messenger bag over his shoulder and removed the Desert Eagle. The slide had not gone fully into battery; a round was half in and half out of the chamber. He yanked the big magazine, shucked the unfired round and put the loose round in his pocket, not trusting that it might not be deformed in some way. He racked the slide a few times, making sure nothing was amiss. Then he inserted a fresh magazine and chambered a cartridge before holstering the big pistol.

      He was more concerned about the Beretta. There had been no time to get a package to him before he reached the school. Brognola had transmitted to his secure satellite phone several files breaking down the details of the operation, which Bolan had read on the flight to Kuala Lumpur. In those files, he had noted that a care package full of special toys from Stony Man Farm was on its way.

      If things went down as they should, it wouldn’t matter for the incursion at the school. The action would be long over before the Farm’s courier reached Bolan in Malaysia.

      The slide of the Beretta was jammed. He removed the magazine and discovered that the feed lips were bent, something he hadn’t noticed in the very brief time he’d had to inspect the gear. He tested the top round in the magazine while he was looking, and decided that the spring felt weak, too. He dropped the magazine to the floor of the car. His prints weren’t on file anywhere, and the weapons Rosli had provided would not be traceable to any operation run by the Farm; if some overzealous Royal Malaysian Police officer decided to claim the magazine as evidence, he was free to do so and feel good about himself.

      He quickly removed the slide of the 93-R. This was harder to do than normal because Rosli was sliding in and out of traffic like a man possessed. The smell of abused brake pads filled the compact car’s cabin and the engine screamed in protest.

      He’d been able to travel with a small tactical flashlight. He took it from the pocket of his cargo pants and used its bright beam to illuminate the barrel and chamber from the muzzle end of the weapon. All seemed to be in order. He was intimately familiar with how the machine pistol should look and operate when properly functional. The finish had been badly scuffed by impact with the pavement, but nothing seemed damaged.

      He reassembled the weapon, worked the slide a few times and, satisfied, started checking magazines. When he checked the spring tension and the feed lips of all of them, carefully, he inserted one and chambered the first round, setting the weapon’s safety and holstering it in his shoulder rig.

      “It is my fault,” Rosli said. “I obtained the weaponry specified at your request. I should have been more meticulous.”

      “It happens,” the Executioner said. “If gear has flaws, combat exposes them, without fail. And at the worst possible time.”

      “Yes, this is true. Your philosophy is wise.”

      “Not mine,” Bolan said. “Murphy’s Law.”

      “Just so. You are ready?”

      “Yeah,” Bolan said. “How long?”

      “Now,” Rosli said. “We are here.”

      Rosli guided the little car to a halt a block away from where the action was, from what the soldier could see. The two men stepped out of the vehicle.

      “Where will you be?” Bolan asked Rosli.

      “I thought I would be coming with you.”

      “No,” Bolan said, shaking his head. “I work alone for this part. Stay out of sight, but stay close. I may need what or who you know before this is over.”

      Without another word, the Executioner strode forward, toward the danger.

      3

      The school reflected the fact that it catered to the progeny of the wealthy and powerful. The building was an impressive neocolonial structure, four stories, with an elaborate entranceway and a sizable property around it—especially by the standards of a densely packed city like Kuala Lumpur. A parking lot, with a ramp leading to further underground parking, was located at the west side of the building. The cars parked in it were almost all very expensive.

      Uniformed Royal Malaysian Police had set up a cordon half a block from the school. From what Bolan could see, coupled with the intelligence data Brognola had provided, every road leading to the school was blocked off. Wooden barricades had been erected and there were plenty of weapons in evidence, mostly Kalashnikov rifles. The intelligence files had included the fact that Fahzal’s regime was a regular purchaser of the Russian surplus arms, and that the first thing the Nationalist Party