SUNKEN TERROR

The disappearance of a defense department Cold War cryptologist and his daughter on a Caribbean island alarms government officials in Washington, and Mack Bolan is sent in to find them. But when Bolan comes across a Russian agent and her partner on the same mission, he soon discovers something is rotten in paradise—and it’s not just the corrupt police force.

A rich American businessman is behind the secret excavation of a sunken Soviet submarine off the island’s coast. He’s found nuclear weapons on board and intends to use them to dupe the U.S. into attacking Iran—and to strike at America’s heart in the process. With international peace and millions of lives at stake, Bolan and his new Russian comrades must race to rescue the hostages and put an end to the billionaire’s deadly scheme. Every man is an island, and the Executioner plans to blow this one off the map.

Bolan asked the FBI agent if he had a weapon

“I do,” Tyler said, patting his chest.

“Better get ready. I think you’re going to have to use it.”

A dirty gray pickup truck whipped around the corner. The bed was filled with rough-looking men. The man in the passenger seat turned his pale, shaved head and yelled something at the driver. Two of the men in the back of the truck straightened and leveled AK-47s over the cab.

“Take cover!” Bolan yelled. “I’m going for those two tourists.”

“Roger that,” Grimaldi replied.

Bolan pulled out his Beretta 93R as he zigzagged through the picnic tables. “Get down!” he shouted at the French couple.

Bolan was about three steps from the tourists when the first rifle rounds zipped by him. He crouched and dove into the man, reaching out for the woman and pulling her down.

He counted eight men total from the truck, spread out across the plateau.The big bald guy, shouting orders in Russian, held his AK-47 over the truck’s fender and sent a barrage at Grimaldi and Tyler, then aimed at Bolan. The picnic table’s thick boards deflected the rounds. Bolan glanced back at the tourists. If they stayed there, hopefully they wouldn’t get hit. He fired another three-round burst toward the truck.

Bolan saw the Russian guy smiling as he looked up over the top of his rifle.

Deadly Salvage
Don Pendleton

The sea does not belong to despots. On its surface immoral rights can still be claimed, men can fight each other, devour each other, and carry out all earth’s atrocities. But thirty feet below the surface their power ceases, their influence fades, their authority disappears.

—Jules Verne,

20,000 Leagues Under the Sea

Land, sea or air, if an atrocity is about to be committed, I am duty-bound to stop it. There is no corner of this earth where criminals and despots will find impunity for their actions.

—Mack Bolan

THE

LEGEND

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam. But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians. Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia. He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail. So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a com-mand center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB. But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority. Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Quote

The Mack Bolan Legend

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

Copyright

Prologue

Edwin Grimes watched the television monitor as the submersible’s mechanical arm dipped around the ruptured hull of the sunken submarine, nimbly grabbing and tearing off some of the twenty centimeters of rubber covering. The massive, looping cables from the floating, semisubmersible platform held the sub in place. It amazed him that things looked so clear on the monitor at the depth of almost 3,000 meters, although wisps of silt from the seabed stirred up as the submersible altered its position. As soon as the area was monitored again for radiation, the divers could start the salvage process. Grimes turned to the technician at the console.

“What’s the radiation level down there?”

The tech picked up the microphone and called the submersible.

“So far almost negligible,” the dive leader replied. “We’ll know more once we cut into the second hull.”

Grimes looked at his watch. If they continued this operation through the night, they should be able to get into the compartments soon. He glanced out through the window. There was perhaps an hour of daylight left, but the sky was tinctured with a reddish glow. Grimes smiled.

Red sky by morning, sailor take warning. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Or so the old saying went. He hoped the calm weather they’d been blessed with the past few weeks would indeed hold.

“Get the second dive team ready to go down in the bell,” Grimes said. “Tell them to plan to stay submerged. That way they won’t waste time decompressing each time.”

The technician looked at him. “Is that wise, sir? We haven’t got much daylight left.”

Grimes turned to stare at the man. “Need I remind you I don’t like to repeat myself?” He punctuated the question by removing the long, black leather sap he kept in his pocket, and placing the tip against the technician’s jawline. The cords in the man’s neck tightened.

Grimes smiled.

It was true, it would be dark soon, but at 3,000 meters below, what difference did that make? It was dark down there regardless, and the divers had to rely on artificial lighting. Grimes held the sap a moment longer, then let it drop. He said nothing more, but made a note to reprimand the salvage chief for placing such an idiot on the console. But that could wait, too. Everett would be expecting a full report when he came back to the island, but that wasn’t for two more days. Grimes, however, was anxious to get off this floating platform rig and back on shore. “And tell them to get my boat ready. I’m going in.”

The technician nodded and picked up the phone.

Good, Grimes thought. He knows he displeased me. Next time he’ll be on his toes, or else his jaw will be wired shut.

Grimes left the control room and strolled around to the side of the platform, placing both hands on the metal safety railing and inhaling the fresh, salty air. The sun was an orange sphere, poised to descend into the ocean. It was a beautiful, awe-inspiring sight that never failed to please him. But something else caught his attention and broke the spell. A vessel was approaching, so close now that Grimes could see it was a luxury yacht. He turned and strode back into the control room.

“Check the monitors, you moron,” he said. “I saw a ship out there.”

The technician rolled his chair over to another section and nodded. “Yes, sir. Looks like a civilian yacht. A cabin cruiser, about fifty to sixty feet in length.”

“Where the hell is that damn island police boat?”

The technician studied the radar screen and shook his head. “Can’t place them, sir. Maybe they went to dinner.”

Grimes swore under his breath. Those islanders were useless. What the hell was Everett paying them for? Still, at this point, the yacht situation might be better handled in-house. “Have a security team meet me by the launch immediately.”

He turned and stormed out again, this time walking briskly down to the gangway that led to the lower section adjacent to one of the platform’s massive buoyancy tanks. By the time Grimes reached the stairs to the launching platform, a squad of five men, all wearing sidearms and carrying AK-47 rifles, had hastily assembled, standing at attention. Grimes gave them a quick, cursory inspection. All had on their crisp, blue uniforms—BDU blouses and cargo pants—and they wore baseball hats emblazoned with Everett Security.

“We’ve got visitors,” Grimes said, pointing to the yacht, which was perhaps five hundred yards away and still advancing. “The island police are nowhere to be found. We’ve got to do it ourselves.”

Vincent Tanner, the security team leader, nodded and ordered his men to board a twenty-five-foot skiff. Grimes accompanied him to the cabin and watched as they fired up the engine and embarked on an intercept course. When they were about a hundred yards away, Grimes gave the order for the men below to keep their weapons out of sight for the time being. Then he picked up the microphone and called out over the loudspeaker, “You’ve entered a restricted area. Come to a stop immediately.”

The yacht, which had A Slice of Heaven in black script along its prow, signaled with a blast from its horn, and slowed. Grimes scanned the wheelhouse, which was enclosed on three sides by glass windows under a sloping canopy. A middle-aged white guy with a glass in his hand, wearing a colorful shirt and a white captain’s hat, stood next to a young Latino man at the yacht’s controls. A woman in a bikini stood nearby, her body taut and very tan. The yacht was dead in the water now and Tanner cut the skiff’s motor, letting them drift within shouting distance of the other vessel. The boat looked as if it could comfortably sleep at least four or five.

The white guy in the wheelhouse pushed back the window on one side and stuck his head out. “What the hell’s all the yelling about?” His voice sounded thick.

“This is a restricted area,” Grimes said. “You’ll have to leave immediately.”

“Restricted?” The man was slurring his words now, his movements slightly exaggerated. “Says who? You don’t look like an official naval vessel to me. Besides, we’re not even inside the three-mile limits yet. Are we?” He turned to the man at the wheel, who shrugged and smiled.

“Will you calm down, Harv?” the woman next to him said. She put her arm around the older man’s shoulders and squeezed as she turned her head and flashed a smile at Grimes. “Good old Harv is a really nice guy,” she called out. She was probably a little bit tipsy, too, but certainly less so than the man. “We didn’t mean any harm, mister. We’re headed for the main island to par-ty.”

Grimes figured her for her mid-to-late thirties. She had a nice body. Obviously, she had plenty of money to spend on cosmetic lifts, tucks and implants.

“Yeah,” a guy on the lower deck yelled. He held up a camera with along zoom lens and clicked some pictures of the skiff and then of Grimes. “Say cheese. We’ve been filming you. I wanted to get some up-close shots of your rig over there.” The camera’s shutter clicked several more times as the man swiveled the lens from the skiff to the floating platform about a hundred yards away. “Got any good-looking girls on that thing could give me some nudie poses?”

“Oh, Norm, you’re such a perv,” a second woman, standing next to him, said. She gave his shoulder a playful slap.

These two looked drunk, as well.

“Hey,” the cameraman said, still looking through the viewfinder. “You guys doing some kind of salvage operation over there?” He lowered his camera, pointing toward the platform. “Look at that. A submersible. Bigger than the one we used to use, Harv.”

“Oh yeah?” Harv raised a set of binoculars to his eyes and studied the scene. “Well, I’ll be damned. It sure is. We used to do underwater salvage. What’s down there?”

Grimes’s head whipped around. The second submersible was alongside the launch, and the divers were assembling as the crane arm hovered above them.

An unfortunate turn of events, thought Grimes. The last thing we need is a bunch of drunks shooting their mouths off about our operation at some island bar and showing photos. Especially if they know about salvage ops. He exhaled slowly, then said to Tanner in a low tone, “This has to be quick and neat.”

Tanner nodded. He snapped off the safety on his AK-47, which he held down by his leg. “Ready when you are, sir.”

“Take out the three above, but wait till I get aboard,” Grimes said. “I’ll take the other two.”

Grimes stepped out onto the deck of the skiff and pulled on a pair of leather driving gloves. “Nice looking boat. How many does she hold?”

“Enough,” Harv said, lowering the binoculars. His brow furrowed as Grimes reached for the ladder on the side of the yacht. “Hey, what are you doing?”

“Permission to come aboard,” Grimes replied with a smile. He began to hoist himself up the ladder.

“I didn’t say you could do that,” Harv said, his drunken voice rising with the first vestiges of alarm. He turned to the young Latino. “Angel, get us out of here.”

The man nodded and reached down toward a shiny silver lever.

A shot rang out. Angel’s head jerked back, momentarily surrounded by a red halo, as a spiderweb of cracks sprang outward from the neat, round hole in the glass windshield. Harv’s jaw dropped as a second shot pierced the glass, and he grabbed his chest as he dropped. The tan woman started to scream. A third shot burst into the wheelhouse. Her voice ceased as she fell.

Grimes was at the top of the ladder now and going over the side. He drew his Heckler and Koch 9 millimeter and aimed at Norm, who was frozen in place on the stern. Grimes double-tapped the trigger, sending two rounds into his chest. Norm lurched forward, clutching the growing red stain expanding over the front of his crisp white shirt. The woman next to him was paralyzed for a moment, too, but as he collapsed she turned and ran toward the cabin doors.

“You’ve got no place to go,” Grimes said. The next round from his H&K caught her in the side and she flopped onto the deck, squirming and crying as her long legs kicked.

Not bad for a one-handed shot, thought Grimes as he assumed a two-handed grip and aimed carefully before sending his next round directly into her left temple. The screaming stopped abruptly and a trickle of blood flowed from her open mouth.

Grimes leaped down onto the deck, immediately moved to the cabin doors and kicked them open. A quick search revealed no other passengers. He surveyed the interior. Nice flat-screen television, a wet bar, and three separate sleeping quarters on either side. Tanner appeared in the doorway, holding out his hand.

“Here’s your brass. And their camera.”

Grimes holstered his H&K, placed the spent shell casings in his pocket and began to review the digital photos. Most of them showed the now-departed crew in a variety of poses. Obviously, they were exhibitionists, but that didn’t matter now. They’d been a security risk, pure and simple. The boss would probably not be happy, but he would no doubt approve.

The camera also contained several clear shots of Grimes, Tanner, the divers and the submersible. Grimes started to press the delete button, but hesitated. Perhaps these would be worth showing to Everett when he got here in case he was miffed at the shooting. He was going to want a full briefing, and this way it would contain visual aids. Grimes smiled at his wit as he slung the camera strap over his neck. “Leave some men here to secure this boat. Find their passports. After you take me back, return here and go through it with a fine-tooth comb. Dump everything of value overboard. Then set this thing adrift far away from here. Make it look like the work of pirates, or drug smugglers or something.”

“Understood, sir,” Tanner said.

Grimes climbed the steps and strode past the two bodies, which were still leaking bright crimson onto the pristine whiteness of the lower deck. He hesitated, but couldn’t resist taking a few photos of his handiwork. He turned and snapped a few of good old Harv, his pretty lady, and the dead Latino kid, as well.

A bit of an untidy mess, but necessary for the mission, Grimes thought as he stepped over them. Collateral damage.

Chapter 1

Mack Bolan, also known as the Executioner, passed the three-mile marker and noted that he had finally broken a sweat. He carried a five-pound dumbbell in each hand. The trees and bushes on either side of the macadamized track that led through the heavily wooden area surrounding Stony Man Farm had just started to sprout their seasonal leaves. Bright sunshine filtered through the swirls of green buds, dappling the trail ahead with splashes of brilliance. Running this five-mile course was a great way to unwind after returning from a mission. Up ahead, two deer walked across the path, stopped, saw Bolan and scampered into the forest.

Suddenly, a distant but distinct buzzing began to intrude on the peaceful scene. The birds became silent as the buzzing grew louder. Bolan had already identified it: a motorcycle—a trail bike most likely—and it was heading his way. Although the soldier normally felt totally comfortable and safe within the confines of Stony Man Farm, his survival instinct never allowed him to completely drop his guard. The trail curved to the left and he quickened his pace, sprinting around the turn, at once out of view from the approaching motorcyclist. He slowed and waded into the heavy foliage. Stopping next to an oak tree, he dropped the dumbbells and pulled his SIG Sauer P938 Nightmare from the pocket of his sweatpants. Then he waited.

When Bolan heard the motorcycle slowing to make the turn, he brought the SIG up and braced his arm against the heavy trunk. The motorcycle rider accelerated and zoomed past Bolan’s position, only to slow down and screech to a halt about eight seconds later.

The rider removed his helmet, but Bolan had already identified him.

It was Jack Grimaldi. Bolan lowered the pistol, grabbing the weights with his left hand and stepping out of the trees.

Grimaldi swiveled in the seat. “Are you slipping or something?” he asked. “You made more noise than a troop of Boy Scouts.”

“I’ll give back my merit badge.”

Grimaldi’s eyebrows rose as he looked at the pistol. “Where’s your Beretta? It’s not like you to be without your baby.”

“Sometimes less is more when it comes to concealment,” Bolan said. He pocketed the SIG, took a dumbbell in each hand and began running again.

Grimaldi twisted the accelerator and pulled up beside Bolan. “Hal sent me to get you.”

“Well, you got me.”

The pilot smiled. “Come on, he wants to see you right away.”

Bolan kept running.

“Did you hear me?” Grimaldi asked. “He said ‘right away.’”

“I heard. Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”

“Hop on and I’ll give you a ride.”

“Nope,” Bolan said. “I’ve been promising myself this run ever since I got back. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes? You slowed down that much?”

“I can make it quicker if I skip my shower,” Bolan said drily.

Grimaldi grinned. “We wouldn’t want that. See you later.” He stopped, replaced the helmet on his head, and asked, “Want to race?”

Bolan didn’t answer, and seconds later Grimaldi zoomed past him with a spray of gravel.

* * *

BOLAN WALKED INTO the War Room freshly showered and changed. Hal Brognola glanced up from his big desk. “Have a nice run?”

“Pretty good until you and Jack ruined it. What’s up?”

“We may have something brewing in the Caribbean.”

“Like what?”

“Missing yacht, for one thing,” Brognola said. “A bunch of rich folks out of Miami. Big campaign contributors to a lot of politicians on the Hill. They took off for the islands and haven’t been heard from in two days.”

“Sounds like a job for the Coast Guard.”

“Normally, it would be,” Brognola said. “But there may be more to it. The FBI’s also nosing around down there on one of the islands. Something about a missing DOD employee.”

Bolan felt his interest spike slightly at that news. In the old days, a missing Department of Defense employee often meant a defection. Now, it could mean terrorism. “What type of employee?”

Brognola picked up a manila file and passed it across his desk. “The guy’s worked there as a crypto code breaker for just about forever. Never had any problems. His name’s Herman Monk.”

Bolan paged through the file. A color photo of Monk was paper-clipped to the inside of the folder. It showed a middle-aged man with thinning hair and thick, horn rim glasses. Other than that, his face was unremarkable. Under the personal information section he was listed as fifty-eight years old and widowed with one child, a nineteen-year-old daughter named Grace. A picture of her was on a subsequent page.

“As I said,” Brognola continued, “Monk’s worked at the DOD for a long time, since the Cold War. He’s an expert crypto analyst. Speaks five languages. He’s supposed to be a wizard at breaking codes, but he hasn’t had a lot to do since the Soviet Union dissolved. He used to track the Soviets around the globe, and more recently the activities of Al Qaeda and friends.”

“The Feds got any theories?”

“He disappeared from work four days ago. Left for a lunch date and never returned. He called in sick for the rest of that day and the next. It was later discovered that he was in the possession of his government laptop.” Brognola got up, went to the coffeemaker on the file cabinet and poured himself a cup. “When Monk didn’t show up for work the following day, they tried calling him, but kept getting his answering machine saying he was still sick. Then they traced the laptop through the built-in GPS transmitter and went to his residence. The laptop was there, but its hard drive wasn’t. And neither was Monk.”

“What type of information was on it?” Bolan asked.

“Unknown,” Brognola said. “Most of Monk’s work these days was translating intercepted texts from Arabic. Like I said, he speaks five languages in addition to English. Arabic, Farsi, Russian, Korean and several Chinese dialects.”

“He should apply for a job at the United Nations.”

Brognola took a sip of his coffee and returned to his desk. “They traced him to a flight three days ago to Puerto Rico.”

“Maybe he wants to be there for the vice president’s visit.”

“That’s not for a few more days,” Brognola said. “Anyway, from there it’s believed he hopped another flight to one of the Caribbean islands.”

“Which one?”

“This one, we think. St. Francis.” Brognola handed Bolan a brightly colored brochure depicting beautiful hotels rising out of white sand, and photos of equally beautiful people drinking and playing volleyball in bikinis and Speedos. “At least that’s what the Feds think. The FBI is down there now trying to find him and his daughter.”

“His daughter?” Bolan flipped the file open again and looked at the girl’s picture.

“Yeah, she was down there a week ago. Apparently, she won some kind of free, all-inclusive vacation. Checked into her hotel and hasn’t been seen since.”

“So you’re thinking the girl might have been kidnapped?”

“Again, unknown, but if Monk has been traced to the same island, it could be a bit more than coincidence. There seem to be a lot of Americans going missing down that way. It’s the same general vicinity where the yacht disappeared.” He handed Bolan another file, which contained pictures of two couples, a young Hispanic man and a luxury yacht with A Slice of Heaven emblazoned on the front.

“So why not let the Feds handle it?” Bolan asked. “Why do we need to get involved?”

“You know how the President feels about checks and balances. He’s not totally comfortable letting the FBI be the only player in the game down there. They can tend to get kind of uptight and formal, especially when they’re investigating something in a foreign country. Sticklers about following the rules. So who better than us to be an impartial observer?”

“Yeah, right.”

“Oh, and I should mention,” Brognola said. “They’re making some kind of blockbuster movie down there, financed by none other than Willard Forsythe Everett III. He’s also hosting the Mr. Galaxy contest on the island this weekend.”

“Does this mean he’s not going to run for president again?”

Brognola chuckled. “He’s got enough money to, but apparently he’s got a new agenda. The island belongs to the French and Dutch, but Everett built an enormous hotel resort there called the Omni. That’s where you’d be staying. Word is, he’s planning on turning the entire island into an adult playground.”

“And do you think he has anything to do with the Monk situation?”

“Hard to say,” Brognola answered. “But I’d like you to keep an eye on things at the Omni, as well. We’ll be sending along someone to accompany you as part of your cover.”

“Who?”

“Jack.” Brognola grinned. “So, you interested?”

“I’m game,” Bolan replied.

* * *

GRIMES WATCHED WILLARD FORSYTHE EVERETT III finish going through the digital images on the camera. Everett was sitting on a sumptuous sofa in the massive penthouse suite atop the Omni hotel. Everett wasn’t a big man by normal standards, but he always carried himself as if he were six feet four. In reality, he was more like five-eight or -nine, depending on the size of the lifts in his shoes.

But there was no denying that he was in incredible shape. He wore a short-sleeved polo shirt and the muscles in his arms rippled with each movement. He regularly worked out with full-contact karate fighters and boxers. His latest kick was the Mixed Martial Arts stuff, but Grimes figured that was because he could keep hitting people after he had them down. Of course, those sparring with Everett knew better than to try too hard to win. The boss didn’t like to lose. He had a bit of what was traditionally referred to as a “Napoleon complex.”

Everett turned off the camera and stood, tossing it next to the pile of papers on his large desk. He walked over to the open patio doors overlooking the beach, and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Those broads were kind of good-looking,” he said. “Too bad you had to eliminate them.”

Grimes waited for Everett’s further comment on the tactical neutralization of the people on the yacht, but the billionaire didn’t seem that concerned. Collateral damage had been an accurate assessment on Grimes’s part, after all. Everett looked tired, though. Grimes knew the rich bastard had just returned from receiving his biannual regimen of steroid and hormone treatments that allowed him to maintain his youthful constitution as he crested middle age. Hair transplants, cosmetic tucks, hormone shots, cheek implants.... Maybe Everett was contemplating another run for the White House.

“What’s the status of the recovery?” he asked.

“I’ve had the men working twenty-four/seven,” Grimes said. “We’ve cut through the second hull, but we have to constantly monitor the radiation levels.”

“Understandable,” Everett allowed, “but the clock’s ticking. Remember I’m juggling the timing of the takeover of the Xerxes, too. It was just getting to Cuba when I left for my treatments.”

“It’s on its way back now,” Grimes said. “Near the Isla de Margarita. We’re tracking it by satellite, waiting till it gets past Tobago before we make our move.”

“Where’s Tanner?”

“Went to Jamaica yesterday to tag up with the Russians. They’re tracking the Xerxes and will intercept with the helicopter from there, once it gets into the Caribbean.”

Everett’s face twisted into a frown. “Is Zelenkov sure he can handle it?”

“He’s ex-Spetsnaz and was fully trained in ship assaults. The Iranians will never know what hit them.”

Everett nodded, but blew out a long breath. “Everything has to coincide exactly, without...creating too many waves.” He paused and smiled at his own pun. “And imagine me playing on the same team as the Ruskies. Who would have thought?” He laughed.

Grimes forced a laugh, too. This seemed to please the boss. Good. The last thing he wanted to do was piss the guy off. His temper was legendary.

“What about those FBI agents?” Everett asked.

“Most of them are in Ponce helping check things out for the vice president’s visit.”

Everett smiled. “They won’t know what hit ’em. What about the agent they sent here?”

“Just a big, dumb Iowa farm boy. He’s being led around by one of Le Pierre’s goons on a snipe hunt.”

“We can’t assume that’ll last forever.” Everett glanced at his watch. “Okay, line up a couple sparring partners for me. I want to work out before we go out on the rig.” He strode back to the desk and picked up the camera.

“Want me to delete those pics?” Grimes asked.

Everett rotated his head, as if loosening up his neck muscles. “Not till I tell you. Keep me posted on the salvage progress, and keep your eyes open for any new arrivals. Especially Americans.”

Chapter 2

The airport was on the southern, Dutch side of the island and situated uncomfortably close to the populated beach. Grimaldi remarked that a high serve from one of the beach volleyball games could have bounced off the big 747’s window as they skidded onto the tarmac and began braking to a stop.

“It looks pretty tight, all right,” Bolan said. “Maybe that’s why they booked us commercial instead of having you try to fly us down.”

“Like hell.” Grimaldi frowned. “I could’ve landed this tub so smoothly it would have been like flopping down onto a featherbed.”

Bolan grinned. His old friend always prided himself on being able to fly anything with wings or rotors better than anyone else. And he was probably right.

As the two of them stood in the customs line for arriving passengers, the soldier looked around. Their line was full of tourist groups and was moving at a snail’s pace, compared to the one on their right, which moved faster but was considerably longer. Grimaldi seemed to notice this, too.

“The line you’re in always seems to move slowest, doesn’t it?” he said.

Bolan nodded as he studied the makeup of the other line. It was overwhelmingly composed of black and Hispanic people with makeshift luggage. They weren’t dressed like tourists, and seemed to be conversing in either Spanish or French.

Prospective workers, Bolan thought, probably from the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico or Haiti.

He looked at the customs agent scrutinizing the passports and papers. The man waved one arrival through and accepted a passport from the next person. Bolan watched as the agent opened the passport, holding it up in front of him, then quickly rubbed his hand over it. A quick cough followed and he brought his right palm up to cover his mouth. Then he dipped his hand beneath the counter, appearing to wipe it on his pant leg. He asked a few more questions and then waved the person through the gate.

As their line progressed Bolan watched the man repeat the coughing gesture, or a variation of it, sometimes using a sneeze, with four other arriving passengers. Bolan was close enough to read the agent’s name tag now: J. Van der Hyden.

Grimaldi was next in line and stepped forward, handing over his passport with an exasperated, “Finally.”

The customs agent smiled pleasantly and gave a welcome greeting in accented English. “And what, may I ask, is the purpose of your visit?”

“You may ask,” Grimaldi said, gesturing toward Bolan and himself. “We’re reporters. My partner and I are here to cover the big movie that Willard Everett III is producing down here.”

“Ah, yes,” the agent said. “That is on the French side. May I see your passport, as well, sir?”

Bolan handed the man his passport, which was under the name Matt Cooper, his civilian alias. The agent’s eyes went from Grimaldi to Bolan, then back to their passports as he shone a light on both documents, making a thorough examination.

Two more people slipped through the gate from Van der Hyden’s line.

The customs agent looked up at them once more. “You may pick up your luggage at the end of the corridor. Have a pleasant stay on the island.”

Grimaldi grabbed the passports and handed Bolan his. “Took him long enough,” the pilot said as they headed to the luggage carousel. “Did you see how many people got through the other station before us?”

“There’s a reason for that,” Bolan replied. “Most of them had a c-note in their passports. They’re probably here illegally.”

Grimaldi smirked. “Hey, so are we, in a manner of speaking.”

* * *

THE ROAD WOUND through the mountains, widening occasionally on fenced-off plateaus where numerous taxis had pulled over and parked so tourists could take pictures of the scenic view. After Bolan and Grimaldi rented a car at the airport, a Citroën, they’d loaded their luggage into the trunk and taken off toward their hotel, which was on the French side of the island. Bolan let the pilot drive, and as the cool wind whipped through the open window, checked in for a sitrep with Brognola on his satellite phone.

“How’s it going so far?” the big Fed asked.

“Not bad,” Bolan said. “We’re on our way to the Omni now.”

“Good to hear,” Brognola said. “We’re working on hooking you guys up with the FBI agent down there.”

The curving roadway straightened out and they started a descent. Ahead, Bolan could see the bay area, with numerous high-rise hotels blocking out the view of the ocean beyond. The tallest one, he knew from his research, was Everett’s resort. Between the ridge they were on and the wall of hotels was a sea of ramshackle buildings and houses where he assumed the locals lived.

Catching a glimpse of something in the side mirror, Bolan straightened. A white jeep was behind them, with POLICE stenciled in black block letters below the windshield. Its flashers lit up and a siren began to wail.

“Hal, I’ll call you back,” Bolan said. “We’ve got a slight problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Island police,” Bolan said. “Jack must have been speeding.”

Grimaldi swore as he pulled the rental car over to the side of the road and stopped. “I’m liking this place less and less,” he said as he and Bolan exited the vehicle.

Two officers approached. One was a tall, muscular black man with a neatly trimmed beard and a starched blue-and-white uniform with chevrons on the shoulders. The other man was white, about five foot eight, and sported a pencil-thin mustache. His uniform had a row of shiny gold buttons, a three-stripe captain’s insignia on both epaulets and a golden braid looped through the left one. His name tag read LE PIERRE.

Bolan studied the sidearms that both men wore. The sergeant’s was a Manurhin MR 73 .357 Magnum revolver. The captain’s weapon looked to be a 9 mm SIG Sauer SP2022. Both dependable guns with smooth action. Bolan smiled. “Good afternoon, Officers. What can we do for you?”

“Ah.” The captain lifted an eyebrow. “You are Americans, n’est-ce pas?”

“That’s right,” Grimaldi said. “How can we help you?”

“You will both give your passports to the sergeant,” the captain said.

Bolan and Grimaldi handed over their documents. The big man glared at them and handed the passports to Le Pierre, who took his time paging through them. “No luggage?”

“It’s in the trunk,” Bolan said.

“Open it immediately, Gipardieu.” He uttered the rest of his instructions to the sergeant in French, and Bolan gathered that Gipardieu had been directed to search their luggage.

“We already went through customs,” Grimaldi said. “What’s the problem here?”

“Here, as you say, is the problem.” The captain took another step forward so that his face was only a few inches from Grimaldi’s. “You are now in French territory.”

Bolan saw Grimaldi’s face start to redden. “Jack,” he barked. “Just open the trunk.”

His mouth set in a firm line, Grimaldi turned and opened the rear compartment of the Citroën.

The big man stepped forward. “Move aside,” he said. His voice sounded high and whiny for such a huge man.

Bolan and Grimaldi exchanged looks and stepped back.

Sergeant Gipardieu took out the three bags, moved around to the side of the car and set them on the roof. He unzipped the two suitcases and fingered through the clothes and toiletries. Then he opened the third case, which had a hard outer shell and silver clasps.

“Be careful with that,” Grimaldi said. “It’s fragile.”

Gipardieu hesitated.

“What is it?” Captain Le Pierre asked.

“It’s our camera and video equipment,” Bolan said. “We’re magazine reporters. We’re here to do a story on the new movie being filmed, and the Mr. Galaxy contest.”

Le Pierre muttered something else in French and made a quick motion with his hand, adding “Vite, vite.”

Bolan watched as Gipardieu took the cameras, camcorder and various attachments out of their foam encasements.

“And what is this?” The captain pointed to a pair of angular handles with grooved, flat metal tops.

“Those are handles for our camcorder,” Bolan said.

Le Pierre studied the items, then blinked a few times.

“Captain,” Bolan said, “can we do anything else for you? If not, it was a very long flight, and my partner and I would like to check into our hotel and relax a bit.”

Le Pierre raised his eyes from the case and studied Bolan’s face for several seconds. He glanced down at the passports and then up again. “Monsieur Cooper...”

Bolan waited. Had their cover been blown? Did this guy know them from somewhere?

Le Pierre gestured to Gipardieu, who slammed the camera case closed. The sergeant turned and walked back to Le Pierre, leaving the three bags on the roof. Le Pierre handed the passports back to Grimaldi and Bolan.

“It is my hope that you enjoy your stay here, messieurs,” he said. The two officers began to walk back to their jeep. “Au revoir.”

“What an asshole,” Grimaldi said as they reloaded their bags and climbed back into the Citroën.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bolan said. “You and he have might have more in common than you think.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Well, I know you have a thing for pretty French girls.” Bolan settled himself into the seat. “And it looks like you both share a preference for SIG Sauers.”

Grimaldi slammed the Citroën into gear and peeled out.

Chapter 3

Bolan dialed Brognola back on the sat phone as they pulled into the Omni hotel’s parking lot. “What’s the latest on that hookup with the Feds?” Bolan asked after he’d filled Brognola in on their encounter with the local police.

“Should be all set,” Brognola said. “I’ll email you the agent’s info and sat phone number. We’re trying to finalize a meeting time now. I’ll send the location as soon as I get it. I’ve also arranged all of your hardware—it will be delivered directly to the hotel. And I’ll see if Aaron can run a check on Le Pierre and that Dutch customs agent. What was his name again?”

“J. Van der Hyden.” Bolan spelled it.

“Got it. I’ll get back to you.”

“Roger that,” Bolan said.

He ended the call. Inside the main lobby, the clerk behind the polished teakwood counter was all smiles and efficiency. He offered them complimentary drink passes to the beach bar, and snapped his fingers at a bellman, telling him to carry the luggage up to their room.

They stepped into an elevator with a glass wall that gave them a postcard perfect view of the beach and ocean. As they rose to the fourth floor, Bolan could see numerous piers with boats of various sizes tethered to the moorings.

“They have boats over there to go fishing and diving?” he asked.

The bellman nodded and flashed a wide smile. “Yes, sir. Fishing, diving, waterskiing, paragliding, anything you want. The concierge can arrange it for you. If you wish, I can have him call up to your room.”

Bolan and Grimaldi exchanged looks. Special attention was not what they wanted right now.

“Maybe later,” Grimaldi said. The elevator stopped and they moved down the hallway toward their room. It faced the ocean, and was much closer to the stairway than the elevator. Good for slipping in and out without drawing too much attention.

“These bags are a bit heavier than they look, sir,” the bellman said.

“Give the kid a nice tip, Matt,” Grimaldi said as he stuck the key card into the slot. “He’s earned it.”

Bolan tipped the bellman, who continued to offer assistance in procuring anything, anything at all, that they might desire, including an introduction to some beautiful island girls who liked Americans.

Bolan declined and closed the door.

“Not so fast,” Grimaldi said. “That last part about the island girls sounded kind of interesting.”

“We’re here to work,” Bolan said drily.

The room was fairly expansive, with two beds, a wet bar built into one wall, and a lounge area. The drapes on the window were open, offering a perfect view of the ocean side.

Bolan secured the dead bolt lock as he and Grimaldi continued their innocuous conversation about the nice flight and the pleasant drive from the airport. As they talked, Bolan pulled out his bug detection scanner and searched the room for any type of listening or recording devices. The scanner detected bugs in the bedroom, bathroom and lounge area.

Grimaldi picked up the phone, dialing the main desk. “I’m sorry, this room won’t do,” he said as soon as the clerk answered.

“Is there a problem, sir?”

“Yeah,” he said. “There’s a strange smell in here, and my partner is very sensitive.”

The clerk hemmed and hawed a bit, but when Grimaldi threatened to vacate the room and send an email to the bureau of travel and tourism, the man agreed to send up the bellman to show them to another suite.

“Tell him to hurry up,” he said. “My partner’s getting nauseous and has a tendency to throw up when he gets a whiff of something rotten.”

After five minutes of waiting, Grimaldi repeated his call to the front desk, this time inserting a bit more anger and outrage into his tone. The bellman’s knock came approximately a minute later. It was the same one as before, and he was carrying a large, locked suitcase.

“Delivery for you, sir,” he said to Bolan.

Bolan thanked him and grabbed the heavy case, giving it a quick once-over for signs of tampering. This had to be the weapons and gear Brognola had arranged a CIA contact to secure and drop off for them. The bellman picked up the remaining three bags and showed the men to another room on the same floor, at the opposite side of the building. It was close to a second stairwell. Grimaldi went in, checked it out and came back into the hall with a smile.

“This one looks more suitable,” he said, grabbing the camera case. “Tip the kid, will you, Matt?”

Bolan gave him some more money. “Here’s hoping we don’t see you again today.”

The bellman looked down at the bills and flashed a big grin. “Oh, I don’t mind, sir. Not at all.” He placed the bags inside the room and left.

Bolan locked the door and repeated his scan of the room. This time the device detected nothing, but he and Grimaldi did a thorough hands-on search just in case.

“Looks clean,” Bolan said.

“It does,” Grimaldi agreed. “Seems like somebody was expecting us,” he said as he unzipped his suitcase. “Le Pierre, you think?”

Bolan shook his head. “Hard to say at this point, but I’m not sure our little buddy Le Pierre would have the means to set up that kind of sophisticated bugging equipment.”

They unpacked quickly, knowing that Brognola had arranged a meeting somewhere on the island with the FBI agent.

Inside Bolan’s case case were the slide, barrel, pin and recoil spring of Bolan’s field-striped Beretta 93R, along with four fully loaded magazines. Next, he removed a supply of additional ammunition and a folded Espada knife, which he clipped to his belt so it was concealed inside his pants. Finally, he pulled out the upper and barrel portions of a SIG Sauer forty caliber P226 and handed it to Grimaldi.

Jack grinned wryly as he assembled the weapon. “Maybe I should’ve shown Capitaine Le Pierre that mine’s bigger than his.”

“Why crush the guy’s already fragile ego?” Bolan said, putting together the Beretta. In a matter of seconds both men had their pistols fully assembled. Bolan checked the safety, inserted a magazine and racked back the slide to chamber a round. He then released the magazine and pressed another round in place, assuring a full load. As usual, two of the clips held standard ammunition, with jacketed ball and hollowpoints alternated, and the other two held special ammunition. One was marked with green to indicate frangible ammunition that was designed to avoid overpenetration, and the other contained armor-piercing rounds. Grimaldi sorted out a similar array of ammo and loaded his SIG, using the decocking lever to place it on safe.

Bolan then dug out two sets of sport-utility shoes that looked as if they had been made for mountain hiking. He passed a pair to Grimaldi, then twisted the metal cleats on one shoe and pulled the thick sole away. He took out a folded shoulder holster, looked at it and tossed it to the pilot.

“That one’s yours,” he said, and repeated the process with the second shoe. This one contained the shoulder rig for his Beretta. Grimaldi was taking apart the other pair, which contained small but powerful radios and ear mics.

“Hal did not disappoint,” Grimaldi said, emitting a low whistle.

With weapons and gear assembled and ready for use, both men changed shirts and slipped their guns into their holsters, checking to make sure their new outfits fully concealed the pistols.

Bolan’s handheld chimed with an incoming email. He picked it up and read it, then turned to Grimaldi. “It’s from Hal. The meet with the FBI man is set. Fifteen minutes. Remember that mountain plateau we passed on the way from the airport?”

Grimaldi nodded.

Bolan gave himself one final check in the mirror to make sure the hang of his shirt properly covered up the Beretta. “You ready?”

“As they say—” Grimaldi smoothed out his sleeveless BDU shirt and grabbed his SIG Sauer “—I was born ready.”

* * *

WILLARD FORSYTHE EVERETT III stood on the catwalk adjacent to the control room on the platform rig and watched as the helicopter made its landing on the helipad below. Edwin Grimes stood next to him, waiting like a bird dog eager for any sign of approval. Everett shot a quick glance at Grimes and began a mental assessment as to when it would be convenient to dump the man. He had proved useful, but lately his missteps, especially that fiasco with the yacht, had started to get under Everett’s skin.

On the helipad, a squad of fifteen men made their way out of the bird as the rotors slowed to a stop. All of them were dressed in dark, camouflaged uniforms and wore matching helmets with night vision goggles attached.

“You’re sure these guys are clear on the mission?” Everett asked. “I told you, we can’t afford any slipups.”

“Zelenkov assured me they’re top-notch,” Grimes responded. “Like I said, a couple are ex-Spetsnaz, just like him.”

Everett pressed his lips together and watched the squad assembling below. Grimes seemed overly impressed by this Spetsnaz bullshit. If these Ruskies were so special, why had they been drummed out of the Russian army? He concentrated his gaze on the group of them, each one holding his AK-47 at port arms. Zelenkov, whose rifle was slung over his right shoulder, walked back and forth in front of the group, barking something in Russian loud enough for the words to drift up to the catwalk. Vince Tanner, Everett’s assistant security chief, stood off to the side. He was clad in similar combat BDUs and was also armed with an AK-47. Zelenkov barked a command and the group snapped to attention.

“Anyone can look impressive doing D and C,” Everett said. “Have they seen any combat?”

“All vets of the conflict in Chechnya,” Grimes said.

“But do they know anything about ship assaults?”

“Zelenkov says they trained for it. Should be a cakewalk.” Grimes gestured down at the group. “Besides, Tanner’s going with them to keep us updated. What could go wrong?”

“There’s always something that could go wrong.” Everett watched the formation a few seconds more. “Tell Zelenkov I want to see him now. Before he leaves.”

Grimes nodded.

“What about those new Americans that came in?” Everett asked. “You get them checked out?”

“Le Pierre rousted them on the way from the airport. Didn’t find any weapons, which made them appear legit. Then they pulled a fast one at the hotel. Demanded to switch rooms. Smelled something funny, apparently, and the one guy threatened to puke.”

Everett frowned. “Sounds like bullshit. They must have noticed the bugs. They’re probably CIA or something. NSA at the very least.”

“They’re on the way to meet the FBI agent on the mountain plateau as we speak.” The yelling had ceased from below and both men glanced downward. Zelenkov was looking up at them, and Grimes motioned for the Russian to come up to the control room area.

“What’s that FBI agent’s name again?” Everett asked Grimes.

“Tyler. Tim Tyler.”

Everett smirked and thought for a moment. “If the U.S. government is sending more agents down, it’s a given that they’re sure Monk is here. Sooner or later they’ve got to figure I have him.”

Grimes nodded.

Everett stroked the stubble around his upper lip, then traced the lines down to his chin. He liked the feel of it under his fingertips—a reassurance that he still had plenty of testosterone. “Le Pierre’s man still with the corn husker?”

“Of course.”

“Good,” Everett said. “Tell him to stall the meeting a bit. Arrange a little reception party for them. Make it look like it’s the work of Boudrous and his boys. Have them take out a couple of bystanders, too, for good measure. Zelenkov can send one of his goons to supervise it just in case.”

Grimes’s brow furrowed, as if he didn’t think hitting the Feds at this juncture was such a good idea. Everett reconsidered the decision. Tipping their hand this early could bring more heat from Washington, and if things went wrong, more agents would be flying down here, perhaps upsetting his timeline. But Everett decided it would work, and this weasel’s critical expression bothered him. “You got something you want to say about that?”

“No, sir,” Grimes said.

“I didn’t think so.” Everett thought about how much he’d like to get Grimes in the ring and beat the shit out of him, just on general principle. He put it on his list of things to do, and smiled. “As I said before, this little mishap will be something for the French and the Dutch to deal with. Why do you think I arranged for Boudrous to come back from Haiti? He’s the perfect fall guy for any disasters that might beset some American agents. A good chess player is always thinking at least two moves ahead.” Everett smacked his right fist into the palm of his left hand. “Regardless, this weak sister we have in the White House now won’t dare do anything until he rehashes all his options. Hell, it might even be beneficial to our big plan. Sow the seeds of public outrage and discontent over the tragic deaths of some more Americans. Get people fired up. Then, when the big bang goes off, the President won’t have any choice but to act.” He let his voice trail off as he looked wistfully at the horizon. “It’ll be a new dawn for the United States of America.”

“It sure will, boss.”

Everett frowned again. Grimes’s ass-kissing sickened him. The weasel was obviously trying to sound convincing, but he was still a little weasel. But they’d been on a one-way track ever since they’d found that Russian sub, and Everett knew he had to finish the game with the players he had. No substitutions, no turning back.

Zelenkov’s heavy, muscular frame sounded like a jackhammer as he ran up the metal stairs to the catwalk. At the top, he whipped a salute at Everett, who returned it. The guy wasn’t even breathing hard.

“You have someone back on the island who can lead an ambush assault on some Americans with a group of Boudrous’s men?” Everett asked. “In a hurry?”

Zelenkov thought for a moment and then nodded. His gray eyes didn’t show emotion. He tilted his head back and the blue-and-black tattoos on his neck seemed to roll upward as the thick muscles shifted. “I do have such a man,” he said, taking out his cell phone.

“Good,” Everett said. “They’ll be on the mountain plateau in about twenty minutes. Three Americans, with an island policeman. Make it look like the work of a band of thugs.”

Zelenkov nodded as he spoke in Russian into his cell. “I will need a few more details,” he added to Everett in English.

Everett turned to Grimes and motioned with his head. “Get with him on this. Make sure it’s hard and clean.”

“Will do, boss.” His smile looked forced. “We’ll take care of it.”

They’d better, Everett thought. I don’t have time for fuck-ups or fools.

Chapter 4

Bolan and Grimaldi leaned against the three-foot-high cement wall that overlooked the lush vegetation of the valley below. Beyond the trees, they could see the coastline and ocean. The plateau was the perfect place to snap some pictures of the gorgeous island scenery. As the road wound along the next bend, the view would expand to include the ramshackle village that preceded the strip of luxury hotels. This lookout appeared to have been bulldozed flat as the road was cut through the mountains. At one time, perhaps, it had been a peak of some sort. Now it was forty yards of blacktop adjacent to the two-lane road, with several parking spaces and an array of picnic tables in the center. Bolan and Grimaldi’s rental sat in one of the spots nearby, while another Citroën was parked at the opposite end. A young couple, probably in their mid-twenties, took turns posing for photos in front of the scenic background.

Grimaldi drummed his fingers impatiently on the cement. “You think he forgot about us?”

Bolan glanced at his watch. The FBI man was fifteen minutes late. “Hal said it was all set up.”

Grimaldi puffed up his cheeks and exhaled. “What’s this dude’s name again?”

“Tim Tyler.”

“Wasn’t there an old comic strip with that name, or something?”

“Yeah. Tim Tyler’s Luck.”

Grimaldi snorted. “Well, I hope this Fed had some luck getting a line on that Monk guy. I’m starting to get an uneasy feeling about this one.”

“You and me both,” Bolan said. He heard the sound of a car approaching and looked toward the far curve. A white police jeep crested the hill and began veering toward them. The driver wore the crisp blue-and-white island police uniform. The man in the passenger seat was dressed in a blue suit, white shirt and necktie. He looked young, maybe twenty-five, and had short cropped red hair and a spray of freckles across his face.

“Will you look at that?” Grimaldi said. “A beautiful, seventy-nine degree Caribbean afternoon and this guy’s dressed like Opie Taylor in a three-piece suit.”

The jeep pulled in next to their Citroën and stopped. The vehicle had no doors and the canvas roof was pulled back. The young guy unbuckled his seat belt, hopped out and walked toward them, holding out his open palm.

“I’m Special Agent Tyler from the Bureau,” he said. “Sorry we’re so late. Are you Cooper?” Tyler’s face was almost boyish.

“I am,” he said, shaking Tyler’s hand. He introduced Grimaldi, who also shook hands with the agent.

“This is Corporal Gaston of the island police,” Tyler said, pointing to the jeep’s driver. “They assigned him to help me check out the hotels and other spots on both sides of the island. He speaks French, English and Dutch.”

“What? No Italian?” Grimaldi shook Gaston’s hand.

Bolan shook the corporal’s hand in turn, noticing that it was damp.

“How do you do?” Gaston asked. He smiled, but his dark face was shiny with sweat, too. “You no doubt have much to discuss in private. I will leave you to your privacy.”

He walked over to the picnic tables, taking out his cell phone as he went. Beyond him, the young couple still flirted playfully, posing for the camera.

“So you two are with the Justice Department?” Tyler asked.

“We are,” Bolan said.

“No offense, but this is a Bureau case.” Tyler’s face scrunched up. “Why did they send you two to investigate?”

“Maybe they figured you could use some backup,” Bolan said. “You down here by yourself?”

“Yeah.” Tyler clicked his tongue. “For the moment, anyway. The agents I was originally paired with got pulled to help check things out in Puerto Rico. The vice president’s going to be there the day after tomorrow to attend the International Caribbean Security Conference.”

“We heard about that,” Bolan said.

Tyler nodded. “Well, anyway, so far we haven’t been able to trace Monk since he was in San Juan. That’s the last recorded place he was at.”

“What about his daughter?”

“She got here about a week ago, but checked out of her hotel room and hasn’t been seen since. Allegedly said she was going to spend some time on a friend’s boat. So at the moment, we don’t know if either of them is on this island. There’s no official record of Monk going through customs here, either.”

“Did you get our tip about that shady customs agent?” Bolan asked.

“Van der Hyden?”

Bolan nodded.

“Yeah, in fact, we just got back from the airport. We checked the man’s station and locker and found a substantial amount of cash.”

“I’m not surprised,” Bolan said. “Did you ask him if Monk came through on a false passport?”

“Yep,” Tyler said.

“Well, what did he say?” Grimaldi asked.

Tyler scratched his head again. “Not much. After we took him off the floor and started questioning him, he clammed up. Immediately asked for a lawyer. I had no choice but to turn him over to the Dutch authorities. He’ll most likely lose his job and be sent back to the Netherlands to face possible charges of official malfeasance.”

Grimaldi frowned and shook his head. “I wish you would’ve waited till we got there. We might have been able to get something out of the guy.”

“Now, now,” Tyler said, waggling his index finger in front of Grimaldi’s face. “Remember, we’re here on the sovereign territory of another country. Actually, in this case two separate countries, which complicates matters even more. We have to make sure our behavior stays within the appropriate confines of international law and go through proper, diplomatic channels.”

Bolan was watching Gaston. His head was jerking back and forth as he spoke on his cell phone. He cast a nervous glance in their direction and resumed talking. The hairs on the back of Bolan’s neck began to rise and he made out the high-pitched whine of an engine approaching. He asked Tyler if he had a weapon.

“I do,” the agent said, patting his chest.

“Better get ready,” Bolan said. “I think you’re going to have to use it.”

A dirty gray pickup truck whipped around the corner. The bed was filled with rough-looking men. The one in the passenger seat turned his pale, shaved head and yelled something at the driver, who angled right for the plateau’s parking area. Two of the men in the back of the truck straightened up and leveled AK-47s over the cab.

“Take cover!” Bolan yelled. “Jack, I’m going for those tourists.”

“Roger that, Cooper.”

Bolan reached under his shirt and pulled out the Beretta 93R as he zigzagged through the picnic tables. “Get down!” he shouted at the couple.

They turned and looked at him, fear fixed on both their faces. Bolan ran past Gaston, who was now standing with his arms stretched over his head. He hadn’t even touched the Manurhin MR 73 revolver holstered on his right side.

Bolan was about three steps away from the couple when the first rifle rounds zipped by him, with an accompanying burst of automatic fire. He crouched and dived into the man, reaching out and grabbing the woman and pulling her down, as well.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” the man asked.

Bolan motioned with his left hand for them to stay down, and whirled to face their adversaries. He flipped the select lever on the Beretta to the three-dot position—3-round bursts—grabbed the bench of the closest picnic table and flipped it onto its side.

Grimaldi and Tyler had taken cover behind the Citroën and were returning fire. Bolan counted eight men total from the truck, spread out across the plateau. Some crouched next to the tailgate of their vehicle, some stood in the bed leaning over the cab, and two others stood out in the open as they fired their Kalashnikovs on full-auto.

Bolan took those two out first. He snapped the front handle down for better control and sent a 3-round burst into each of them. They curled and fell forward. Grimaldi picked off one of the rooftop shooters. The other one ducked down. The big bald guy, shouting orders in what sounded like Russian, held his AK-47 up over the fender and sent a barrage at Grimaldi and Tyler, then aimed the barrel at Bolan. The picnic table’s thick boards deflected the rounds as they pierced the wood. Bolan glanced back at the tourists, who were still on the ground behind him, sheer terror on their faces. If they stayed there, hopefully, they wouldn’t get hit. He fired another 3-round burst toward the big Russian guy just as Gaston ran past him, as fast as he could, away from the fight. Bolan swore at the retreating cop, but as he did so, the back of the corporal’s crisp blue shirt was perforated by a track of bullet holes. Gaston took two more steps, slowed and fell on his face.

Bolan saw the Russian guy smiling as he looked up over the top of his rifle.

The soldier dashed forward, shooting a burst as he ran, then dived between the legs of another picnic table. He continued to roll as more rounds zipped around him. When he stopped, his arms were extended in ready position and he had a clear shot at the Russian.

The bald man’s face reflected surprise, then a grimace as he spotted Bolan. The Russian swiveled the barrel of his rifle toward him, but the soldier had already acquired a sight picture and sent 3-rounds into the man’s side. He lurched back, his rifle still pointed in Bolan’s direction. Bolan fired another burst, this time elevating his aim. The Russian’s head jerked and he recoiled backward, a cloud of scarlet mist exploding from his right temple. As the man crumpled to the asphalt, the Executioner was up and running.

Bolan knew from experience the best way to deal with an ambush was to fight your way out, and he fired more 3-round bursts as he ran. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Grimaldi rising and firing his SIG at the shooters in the truck. Two more fell. The remaining two adversaries were crouching by the side of the truck, screaming at each other. It was clear they were panicking, and Bolan ran at an angle to outflank them. He knew that Grimaldi would be doing the same.

One of the men saw Bolan and raised his rifle. The Executioner dived into a slide, and as his left side hit the hard asphalt, he brought the Beretta in front of him and sent two bursts along the ground. The rounds zipped under the carriage of the pickup and into the feet and legs of the last two shooters. He saw them dancing in pain as Grimaldi rounded the other side. Jack took out the one closest to him and Bolan shot the other man in the chest. Both fell to the ground, their AK-47s tumbling out of their hands.

Bolan kept moving, keeping his Beretta trained on the fallen adversaries. He and Grimaldi kicked the rifles away from the bodies as they checked them. When they had determined that each man was, in fact, dead, Bolan straightened up and flipped his Beretta to Safe.

Tyler ran over to them, panting and still holding his pistol. The slide was locked back, indicating he’d fired all the rounds in his magazine.

“Is it over?” the FBI man asked. His voice sounded faraway, distorted.

“Looks like it.” The ringing had started to fade from Bolan’s ears. Grimaldi walked over to them and pointed to Tyler’s gun.

“Looks like you’re out of ammo,” he said.

Bolan stooped and removed a pistol from the big bald guy’s belt. It was a Russian Tokarev 9 mm.

“I’ve never been in anything like that before,” Tyler admitted. “You two guys are unbelievable.”

“First shootout?” Bolan asked.

The agent nodded, his face pinched.

Bolan turned and went to check on the young couple. He found them right where he had left them, lying prone on the ground in back of the overturned picnic table. He stooped down and gently placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. His head shot up, terror still etched across his face. Bolan smiled. “The worst is over,” he said, gesturing toward the young woman. “Are you both okay?”

She looked up, her face streaked with tears. “We are not harmed,” she said.

Bolan gave them a reassuring nod and did a quick assessment of the situation. He went over to examine the fallen island policeman. The man was dead, his weapon still in its holster. A cell phone lay in pieces next to his outstretched hand. Bolan would have liked to have been able to check the last call the dead man had made, or maybe scroll through his contacts, but he already had a pretty good idea who Gaston had phoned. The timing of this ambush had been a little too coincidental.

In the distance Bolan heard the wail of a siren. Sounds like the cavalry’s coming, he thought. Late, as usual.

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