Murder Island

Mack Bolan paused, straining to catch the smallest whisper of sound. The air was hot, and a trickle of sweat inched its way between the dark fatigues he wore beneath his body armor and the skin on the back of his neck. Insects buzzed softly around him, audible but not visible. The jungle was awash in sound, but it was muted by the close-set foliage that cast shadows over the trail ahead.

Bolan had a lean, rangy shape. He stood so still that if anyone had been present, they might have thought him simply one more shadow among the multitude cast by the trees that rose up around him. Their wide, fleshy leaves formed a green canopy overhead.

There was no sky to be seen above him and no road ahead of him—only a wall of vibrant greens, yellows and browns. The air pressed in on Bolan’s mouth and nose like a wet towel. He was reminded of a Louisiana hothouse he’d once had the bad fortune to spend a night in. He’d been hunting that night, as well—different targets, but for similar reasons.

Wary now, his combat-honed senses tingling, the Executioner sank down and checked his gear. A Heckler & Koch UMP-45 was strapped across his chest and his Ka-Bar knife sat snugly in its sheath on his leg. His Desert Eagle pistol was on his hip and a sound-suppressed Beretta 93-R was holstered at the small of his back. The Beretta was set to fire 3-round bursts—something that had proved handy more than once. It was a .22 TCM conversion, with a 25-round magazine, plus one in the chamber. The Desert Eagle, in contrast, had only eight rounds in the magazine, but it also had a good deal more stopping power.

All three firearms, as well as the quintet of M-18 smoke grenades hanging from his web gear, had been provided by Stony Man Farm’s resident weapons guru, John “Cowboy” Kissinger, and as such could be relied on to perform to battlefield specifications.

Bolan crouched there for long moments, poised on the knife edge of action. An acrid odor filled his nostrils—a raw scent, an animal stink that set cruel hooks into the atavistic portions of his brain. His body screamed at him to freeze, but he had long experience in ignoring such instincts and he lunged forward, rolling away.

A heavy body, tawny and striped black, slammed down on the spot where he’d been crouched. A long shape unwound and turned toward him, tail lashing in frustration as Bolan rose to his feet. He hadn’t expected to see a tiger and the microsecond of surprise that followed nearly cost him his life. The animal leaped again. Bolan jerked aside. His back slammed into a tree and the tiger surged past, vanishing into the foliage with a frustrated snarl.

Adrenaline pumping now, Bolan tracked the flashes of orange as the animal circled him. He hefted the UMP, considering. The soldier rarely killed animals unless absolutely necessary. Then again, he might not get the chance. Tigers were, pound for pound, among the most dangerous animals on the planet, fully capable of killing a man as well-schooled in the ways of war as himself.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, the tiger sprang at him again, jaws wide. Bolan shoved away from the tree and began to run. He hurtled forward, the sharp edges of the plants smacking into him. He could hear the tiger panting behind him. The Executioner began calculating the distance he would need between him and the animal to get off a good shot. If it came down to it, he would have to roll when the beast lunged and try to get under it. He might stand a chance if he could put a shot into its heart or its head before the tiger opened him up with its claws.

Suddenly the greenery of the jungle gave way to a sea of lights. Bolan skidded to a halt inches away from the wide expanse of tinted glass that marked the boundary of the rooftop atrium. The glass was wet with condensation, but even so he could see the panorama of Hong Kong at night spread out in front of him.

This close to the window, he could hear the alarms and see a query mark of oily smoke rising from the car he’d set on fire on the street below. The fire had occupied the building’s staff while Bolan had taken the elevator as high as it could go. Unfortunately the elevator required a code and a retina scan to go any higher. It had been simple enough to climb out the hatch in the elevator’s roof and haul himself up the cables to the next floor, insert a pry bar between the elevator doors and make his way into the penthouse apartments of Byron Cloud.

The guards outside Cloud’s apartment had been easy enough to dispatch, and quietly at that. But the ones inside had been a different matter. The firefight had allowed Cloud to make his escape. He had the instincts of a rat and he’d fled the moment Bolan showed his face, running for the stairs that led from the penthouse to this atrium and a helipad.

The indoor jungle was only one of Cloud’s seemingly endless indulgences. The tiger was another, judging by its rhinestone collar. Cloud had likely let the animal loose, hoping it would occupy Bolan. He shook his head slightly, bemused. It wasn’t often that someone threw a vicious animal at him.

Cloud made his tiger money by selling weapons to the weaponless. Guns, bombs and worse were his stock-in-trade; if it could be used to kill, Cloud had it in stock. He’d supplied more than a dozen terrorist organizations and criminal cartels with the tools of their filthy trade, and he had contact with the representatives of a dozen more.

Cloud was a walking Rolodex of operational intelligence, both for American security agencies and those of America’s allies. But he was protected, both politically and otherwise, which meant extradition of any sort was out. He occupied the first three floors of a building he owned through a shell corporation, and he had a security staff big enough to take over a small island nation, which meant any attempt to remove him forcibly would get very ugly very quickly.

None of which bothered the Executioner.

Bolan had come to Hong Kong at the request of the man who, once upon a time, had been in charge of the Federal task force assigned to bring the Executioner to heel. Now they were brothers-in-arms. Brognola was head of the Sensitive Operations Group and he directed the Stony Man Farm counterterrorist teams. When Hal Brognola, asked for help, Bolan gave it gladly. Especially when it involved taking down a creature like Cloud, a man who was no less guilty than the criminals and terrorists he supplied.

Bringing Cloud to heel was too far outside the remit of any organization—even an extralegal group like Stony Man—to accomplish without jeopardizing international relations. But the Executioner could do as he damn well pleased.

Bolan heard the scrape of the tiger’s paws and spun, leveling the UMP. But too late. The tiger hit him like a cannonball and he slammed backward into the glass. There was a sound like a hundred bottles shattering at once, and then the night air caught him and he was spinning through space in a cloud of broken glass. His stomach gave a lurch and he lost his grip on the UMP. The startled roar of the tiger filled his ears.

The Hong Kong skyline spun crazily around him for a moment that seemed to stretch for an eternity, a revolving kaleidoscope of colors and lights. As he twisted, the scope of his vision was abruptly filled by an orange expanse of water.

2

Bolan crossed his arms over his head as the water rose up to meet him. He hit the surface and the force of his descent slammed him down against the bottom. White and yellow tiles burst at the point of impact and pain shot through him, shocking him into motion.

He’d been hurt worse, and he forced the pain aside as he fought the instinct to struggle. It took him only a few seconds to realize he was in a swimming pool. He’d held his breath just before he hit, but if the water was deep enough to cushion his landing it was deep enough to drown in.

Through chlorine-stung eyes, he saw the rush of bubbles that signaled the tiger joining him in the water. The animal struggled to the surface with great flailing motions, and Bolan thrust upward a moment later, muscles and lungs burning in equal measure. He splashed toward the shallow end of the rooftop pool, away from the tiger. His body armor had three great slashes running across it where the big cat’s claws had caught him. The vest was fully capable of stopping bullets, but 600 pounds of angry carnivore was a different matter entirely. Luckily, the tiger didn’t seem interested in resuming the hunt. It glowered at him for a moment before it shook itself and padded away.

Satisfied there was no immediate danger, Bolan took in his surroundings. The atrium was only a single story above him, and he’d fallen into the pool that occupied the flat, patio-style balcony of the penthouse apartments below. Only luck had prevented his landing from being more unpleasant or even fatal, and a surge of anger, both at himself and at his quarry, rippled through him. It wasn’t often Bolan was caught by surprise. He thrust the thought away as he began to pull himself out of the pool.

He turned as a crackle of static assaulted his ears and a voice said, “It’s like this, right—what good is owning a tiger if you don’t let it eat somebody every now and then? That’s half the value right there, I swear to God. I think I’m going to get a leopard seal next, though. Or maybe a hyena. I know a guy in Lagos who’s got one—a hyena, I mean, not a leopard seal. Though wouldn’t that be great? Shit, maybe I’ll get both. What do you think? Never mind, you’ve got other things to worry about.” A second wash of static accompanied this burst of verbal diarrhea and Bolan spotted the intercom speakers wired along the wall.

A moment later he heard a familiar noise and turned as a helicopter bobbed into view above the edge of the roof. The intercom crackled again as the side door to the helicopter was hauled open by a wiry man in a suit worth more than the penthouse, with an artificial tan and teeth whiter than nature intended.

Byron Cloud was a parody of every renegade Wall Street trader and stock-and-bond hustler Bolan had run across in his long career. Cloud lifted his designer sunglasses onto his head and waved at Bolan as if to catch his attention. He was wearing a headset and, as he spoke, his voice emerged again from the intercoms.

“You like it? I got it cheap—it’s a Sikorsky S-76,” Cloud said. “Of course, I’ve made a few adjustments,” he continued, patting an M-60 machine gun mounted on an adjustable pintle arm. “Yard sale,” he said, bringing the machine gun around. “You would not believe what you can get for under a sawbuck in this economy.”

He grinned at Bolan over the length of the weapon. “Shame about the pad, but, hey, buyer’s market. Besides, the feng shui needs a shakeup. Am I right? Ciao!” Cloud fired and the M-60 bucked in his grip. His laughter echoed from the speakers.

Bolan ran for the patio doors and hurled himself through even as gunfire chewed the frame and the wall around them. Splinters of wood, plaster and glass filled the air. Bolan hit a leather couch with his shoulder and flipped it over. Bullets punched through, narrowly missing him.

He scanned the room, wishing he hadn’t lost the UMP in the fall. Bolan couldn’t take on an M-60 with only a pistol. He caught sight of the bodies of the guards he’d killed earlier. More importantly, he saw their weapons. He reached out with his foot and snagged the nylon strap of an AR-15 semi-auto rifle. He dragged it closer as bullets continued to sear the air around him.

“Still alive?” Cloud called through the few speakers he hadn’t managed to hit with his spray of gunfire. Whatever else he was, Cloud was no marksman. Nor did he seem to be trying particularly hard. He was like a child with a new toy. “Sweet,” Cloud said, as if Bolan had replied. “Look, I’m not a bad guy, right? I’ll give you a five count to get to the elevator. Then I’m opening up again.”

Bolan shook his head. He’d fought talkers before, but rarely one so intent on filling the air with absolute nonsense. He checked his newly acquired weapon. It would do in a pinch. He had the range, now he needed cover. Bolan removed one of the smoke grenades from his web gear, pulled the pin and sent the canister sailing over the top of the couch, out toward the patio.

“One, two…five!” Cloud said. The M-60 opened up again, chewing the apartment’s expensive decor to pieces. “We’re having some fun now, right?” he shouted as Bolan popped more smoke, using every grenade he had. He saw the tiger pad swiftly through the swirling fog, heading for the rear of the apartment, and felt a moment of relief. The beast deserved better than to die at the hands of its careless owner.

Bolan was tempted to return fire, but Brognola had been adamant that they needed Cloud alive and in one piece. There was too much information in that scrambled brain of his. Bolan couldn’t risk letting anyone else kill Cloud, either. It was only a matter of hours before every hired gun in the Pacific region was on Cloud’s trail, looking to punch his ticket once they knew he’d been compromised. Cloud’s clients, whatever their political affiliation or criminal record, couldn’t allow him to talk. Bolan wondered whether Cloud knew that or not; or if he did, whether he cared. It didn’t matter either way. Bolan had a mission to accomplish and he intended to do it.

He hefted the AR-15 and rose. The smoke thinned for a moment and that was all he needed. He let off a burst and heard the telltale sound of a bullet striking metal. The M-60 stuttered into silence and Cloud’s curse echoed through the intercoms. As the helicopter’s rotors began to clear the smoke, Bolan saw the other man trying to coax the machine gun back to life. Bolan’s shots had struck the weapon’s box magazine, denting it and causing the temperamental weapon to jam.

Cloud gave up when he saw Bolan and started laughing again. “Ha! Man, you come straight out of a comic book,” he said. “Right, fine, it’s been fun, but I’m out of toys and I’ve got a plane to Tokyo idling on the runway. Going to get me some sushi and wait for whatever this is to blow over. Catch you later, pal.” Cloud gave a jaunty wave as he swung himself into the compartment and made to shut the hatch. The helicopter began to pull away from the roof.

Bolan sprang over the couch. He was only going to get one chance at this. He tossed the assault rifle aside and charged forward. As he reached the edge of the balcony, he didn’t pause, but instead put on a burst of speed and leaped out over the void, angling his body toward the helicopter. Time seemed to slow as his perceptions stretched and thinned. The sound of the rotors became a thundering rumble and the background noise of the city below faded, replaced by the hammering of his pulse. Time rushed forward, speeding back up. His fingers hooked the edge of the hatch and he swung inside.

Cloud gaped at him and didn’t react until the soles of Bolan’s boots bit into the deck of the helicopter. Bolan wobbled a moment, warring against gravity, and then he lurched forward to tackle Cloud. The arms dealer slammed back against the other side of the compartment with a yell before charging at Bolan. Something gleamed in Cloud’s hand, and Bolan heard the hiss of the straight razor cutting the air as he jerked his head aside. He drove a fist into Cloud’s belly, and the arms dealer folded over his forearm, wheezing like an asthmatic. The straight razor clattered to the deck and Bolan kicked it through the open hatch. Grabbing a handful of Cloud’s throat, he slammed him into a seat, drew his Desert Eagle and aimed at the pilot, who’d been clawing for his own sidearm.

“Don’t,” Bolan said as he cocked his pistol. “Take it out, nice and slow, and toss it. I’d prefer not to shoot you, but the only person I can’t shoot is your boss. Remember that, and you might just get out of this in one piece.” When the pilot had disposed of his weapon, Bolan rattled off a series of coordinates and then said, “You know where that is?”

The pilot nodded. Bolan gestured with the Desert Eagle. “Good. Get going.” He looked back at Cloud, whose face was purpling as he clawed ineffectually at Bolan’s unyielding grip. He loosened his hold on the other man. “And you—behave.”

“You—you can’t shoot me,” Cloud croaked.

“Did I say I was going to shoot you?” Bolan asked. He smiled thinly. “I don’t need a gun to hurt you, Mr. Cloud,” he said, layering his words with as much menace as he could. Cloud blanched and ceased his struggles.

“All right, it’s cool, be cool, man,” he whined, holding up his hands. “I was just playing.” He sagged away from Bolan. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“I’m the guy with the gun,” Bolan said. “Now sit back and shut up.” He grinned fiercely. “You’ve got a plane to catch.”

3

“Hello, Byron. How’ve you been?” Tony Spence said, his amusement evident. Bolan shoved Cloud forward. He’d bound the man’s wrists with a zip-tie on the trip to the airfield. He’d done the same to the pilot, and he propelled his second captive forward to stand beside Cloud.

“Spence,” Cloud said. He made the agent’s name sound like a curse. Spence was the CIA’s man in Hong Kong. He was short, plump and dressed like a tourist. The tooled-leather shoulder holster he wore beneath his cheap sports coat was occupied by a 9 mm pistol and his hands had the hard calluses of a fighter.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Spence said. He took his sunglasses off and grinned at Bolan. “Agent Cooper, good to see you again.” One of Bolan’s many cover identities, Matt Cooper was an agent of the Justice Department.

“Cooper,” Cloud said slyly, glancing at Bolan. “Is that your name? I’ll remember it.” Bolan didn’t feel threatened as much as amused. Cloud might consider himself a hard man, but Bolan had faced worse in his long, bloody career.

“Shut up, Byron,” Spence said, swatting Cloud on the back of the head. “The grown-ups are talking.” He smiled at Bolan. “They told me you were good, Cooper, but I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.”

“We aim to please,” Bolan said. “I wasn’t aware we’d met before.”

“Oh, we haven’t. I saw you at a distance, during that Ackroyd thing a while ago.” Bolan nodded. “The Ackroyd thing” as Spence put it, had been bad—a group of psychotic white supremacists had attempted to let loose an antediluvian plague. Bolan had tracked them halfway to the Arctic Circle before he could put paid to the threat they represented. “Good job with that, by the by,” Spence continued. “Anyway, when they said you could get our guy out of his sanctum sanctorum, I wasn’t sure, but we’ve tried everything else. Ol’ Byron here is a slippery one.” He took hold of Cloud’s arm. “Come on. You look like you could use a cup of coffee. We got time before our flight.”