Читать книгу Outback Assault - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

Bolan got off the plane, eyes sharp for the presence of any members of the Black Rose Triad who would be at the airport to greet him. If they knew Wade Augustyn by sight, they would know something was wrong. His carry-on was only loaded with clothes. He’d be unarmed in the face of a mobster offensive. Under other circumstances that wouldn’t be a problem, but in an airport full of civilians, any delay in neutralizing armed opposition would increase the risk of bystanders being gunned down.

Since no Chinese gunmen popped out of the woodwork, Berettas blazing, Bolan felt secure going to the public lockers. He felt under the one he’d been directed to in the attachment to the e-mail containing the electronic ticket he’d ridden in on. The key was taped under a metal lip, and he plucked it free. Inside the locker were two envelopes. One was a large manila, stuffed with what looked like a file. The other was a smaller padded envelope containing a cellular phone. Bolan tucked the file into his carry-on and retrieved the phone. He hit the speed dial.

“Finally made it,” came the voice on the other end.

“I was just getting back from other business,” Bolan said, imitating Augustyn’s voice.

When Bobby Yeung spoke again, he gave no indication of noting any difference. “Say no more. How long will it take for you to get equipped for your safari?”

“Give me till dusk to get what I need,” Bolan said.

“Good. We’ve got a situation. We might need you prowling in Darwin first. I’ve got my people out and about, but…”

Bolan walked over to a table in the concourse food court and took a seat. He pulled out the file and set it before him, opening it. “There’s a picture of them in my file?”

“Naturally,” the Black Rose man said.

“Which one?” Bolan asked.

“The girl. She escaped, and we need to put her down fast.”

“You can’t find her?” Bolan pressed. He looked at the young woman. She was pretty, with big beautiful brown eyes. The name scrawled in the margin of the photo was Arana Wangara. It was right next to a photograph of an older man labeled Grandfather Wangara. In red marker, across Grandfather’s face, was written Troublemaker.

“She disappeared in Alice Springs. We had hoped to catch up with her, but—”

“But they didn’t think that she could blend in with a crowd because she was just an Abo, right?”

The Chinese mobster chuckled. Bolan’s derision of his people’s bigoted arrogance wasn’t lost on him. “It wasn’t my people. We’d had a couple of thick-headed whites doing the legwork. I’ll have some real talent searching the bus stations in Darwin—including you.”

“If you’ve got your act together, what do you need me for?” Bolan asked.

“Because I’m still stuck in the middle of absolute nowhere. And I need someone smart making sure this little chickie is put down,” the triad spokesman said.

“I don’t do bus station detail,” Bolan replied. “Even in Australia, there’s too much of a urine smell.”

“How about you roll up a few thousand yen and stick them up your damn nose to filter out the piss-stink?” the Chinese bartered.

“A few thousand yen’s pocket change,” Bolan countered.

“Dollars?” the gangster offered.

“Pounds sterling,” Bolan said.

“You’re killin’ me!” Yeung exclaimed.

“You should be so important,” Bolan warned. “Come to think of it, why are we killing a young woman?”

“Because she’s a liability,” the mobster explained, sounding as if he were talking to a child.

“Well, if you want me to bust my ass for a week hunting down Grandpa Abo, you’re paying by the day,” Bolan reminded him. “Frankly, I’d rather make my job easier.”

The Chinese man hissed in frustration. “Can you get this kind of information out of the girl?”

“Only if she stays alive,” Bolan admonished. “And stays healthy.”

“Healthy,” the mob boss repeated.

“As in untouched. If she goes catatonic because some of your boys took a piece, my work is going to be a lot harder. And they personally won’t like me when I have to work harder,” Bolan growled. “Got it?”

“You kill my men—”

“What? You called me in because you couldn’t handle this. What makes you think you can handle me?” Bolan asked. “Because if you can handle me, some old man shouldn’t be the top page of your hit list.”

“That’s because they say he’s one of their shaman…whatevers. He walks in the Dreamtime or some such. Keeping up with him is impossible,” Yeung answered.

“You called me in to exterminate fifteen unarmed Aboriginal activists,” Bolan said.

“They’re not Chinese. What do we care?”

“You got me. As long as I get my cash,” Bolan replied.

“I’ll get a message to my boys,” Bobby Yeung replied. “You’ll get your bonus for catching the girl.”

Bolan hung up the phone and examined the files after getting something to drink at one of the counters on the food court.

From the description of the targets, it didn’t take the Executioner long to figure out that the triads were clearing a tract of land for a large facility, and the heads on the list were community activists trying to maintain their tribal lands. Considering the space being opened up by the Chinese mobsters, Bolan wouldn’t have put it past them to build an airport that would be a stopover to “sanitize” overseas shipments, a form of relay that would keep customs from looking too closely at repackaged contraband.

It was a perfect setup for anything from knockoff goods to drugs. Remembering his basic knowledge of the Australian outback, and the fact that he was going to clean house a hundred or so miles from the famous Uluru mound, he’d be operating in a desert environment. The file requested that everything be made to look as if it were the act of a lone psychotic with a powerful hunting rifle.

Bolan finished his drink, bought a sandwich wrap to go and switched to the cell phone he had taken from Eugene Waylon. It was programmed with Augustyn’s Darwin contacts.

He flipped open the phone, and typed in a quick text message to the assassin’s arms dealer in northern Australia. The response was immediate.

“Meet me in a half an hour.” An address was provided with the response. Bolan pocketed the phone and went to a shop for some items he knew he’d need for the upcoming meeting with the gun seller. It’d have to be enough until he got his hands on some real firearms.

ARANA WANGARA GOT OFF the bus and kept her head low. She tried to blend in as a bored teenage tourist, keeping sullenly to herself as she tucked her knapsack tightly under her arm. Wangara scanned the crowd for signs of the Asian musclemen working for the mobsters who’d ordered her home torched.

She’d loaded a couple of rocks in the bottom of her bag as a crude weapon. The weighted sack would at least knock a bad guy off his feet, if not break a jaw or cheekbone. It wasn’t a shotgun, but at least it was something. Seeing her unarmed might actually lull her hunters into a false sense of security that would give her a chance to upgrade to an actual firearm.

Wangara clutched the strap of her bag tightly, eyes darting. Her grandfather had taught her how to use his rifle, a bolt-action Enfield from World War II, original ANZAC issue, and a pump shotgun. She’d even taken lives, dropping a marauding, sheep-killing dingo with the Enfield, as well as wild hogs. She’d learned that she could kill to protect lives, and while there was a difference between Chinese gangsters or bigoted Outback rednecks and a feral dog, the end result was the same.

Violence against violence, to preserve life, she thought. If she fell, then the gangsters and their hired thugs would kill other members of the tribe to keep them silent about the activities on their stolen land. She certainly did not want to die, but she also knew living would be made hollow if she let down her grandfather.

Wangara tucked her chin down against her chest and continued through the bus terminal, weaving in time with the crowd around her. Someone on the periphery of the group jerked his attention toward her, the sudden movement focusing Wangara like a laser on him. It was a young Asian man, wearing black sunglasses and a battered leather jacket too large for his slight frame, but with enough drape to hide a pair of sawed-off shotguns under its folds. She returned to staring at the floor, walking quickly to keep pace with the other tourists.

The young Chinese man tried to push through the throng of departing bus riders, but Wangara was out the door and turning down the street. There was another Asian man outside, this one wearing an overly large jacket, except in denim. He reached under his lapel, watching her through his impenetrable shades. Wangara fought not to run, not to look at the gunman out of the corner of her eye.

Acknowledgment of her hunters would give them the advantage. They were holding back, not quite sure if she was the prey they were seeking. If she bolted, or even if she glared at them too long to study them, they would be certain and act quickly to either restrain her or just pull their guns and fill her with holes.

Wangara kept to the main street. The gangsters would be hesitant to act in the open, with so many witnesses around. The reason she was being hunted was to keep the triad’s scheme from being discovered. The blatant, public assassination of a young woman on the run from her Aboriginal tribal lands would draw attention like a lightning rod.

The man with the denim jacket pulled out a cell phone and spoke into it. He turned it toward her, and Wangara knew she couldn’t suddenly look away, despite the fact that she knew he was using the cell’s camera attachment. She only hoped that the usually blurry distance shots would make her identification difficult, especially since the young mob tough was only able to catch an angled profile.

It wasn’t much, but she was grateful for any advantage she had. The weight of the rocks in the bag on her shoulder gave her more reassurance, but nothing would last forever. Sooner or later, the man in the jean jacket would move in to make a final identification, and Wangara would have to fight or die.

She hoped that her grandfather was right about the lone crusader.

THE EXECUTIONER STOOD in the doorway of Red’s Sporting Supply, his eyes adjusting to the light.

“Plastic surgery again?”

Bolan scanned the small sporting goods store and saw an older man with a rust-colored crew cut and a nose that had been mashed flat in countless fights. Dark, hard eyes glared out from under a beetle brow as he evaluated the newcomer.

Bolan nodded.

“You’re paranoid, Wade,” Red said. “Come in the back.”

“Sure,” Bolan replied, adopting Wade’s speech patterns, but speaking softly.

“What’d you do to your throat?” the arms supplier asked.

“Had the surgeon give it a few scrapes,” Bolan explained. “Change my voice just enough. Figured a new face isn’t any good without an altered voice.”

“Like I said, Wade. Paranoid.”

Bolan smiled. “I’m still alive.”

Red laughed as they entered the back room. There was a door and from the other side, Bolan could hear muffled pops coming through a basement stairwell entrance. Signs on the windows out front had mentioned a public range, firearms rentals, as well as a storage fee for personally owned weapons. “I’ve got a bag ready for you, based on what you texted me.”

Bolan nodded and walked over to the gym bag with the All Blacks logo on the side. He unzipped it, looking at a pair of pistol rugs and a short rifle case.

“The rifle’s been broken down, but if you want to look at it, I’ll let you check it out on the range,” Red said. He tossed Bolan a pair of ear protectors and some shooting glasses.

Bolan donned them and took the bag to the basement range.

“Won’t be able to sight in at a distance,” Red said, following him down, wearing his own ear and eye protection.

“I know how to zero based on close range,” Bolan replied as he opened the case. He assembled the weapon, recognizing it as a VEPR. Considering that the VEPR was a reengineered RPK machine gun, itself a derivative of the AK-47, the Executioner knew it would be a good, tough rifle, immune to any hostile environment he’d drag it through. He looked at the magazine and saw that it was chambered for .300 Winchester Magnum rounds. The rifle’s reinforced receiver could handle the extra-powerful cartridge. Whereas the AK itself had been made from stamped steel, the VEPR was made of stronger metal, with a stronger bolt, designed for firing prolonged bursts from extended light-machine-gun-sized magazines. On single shot, it would handle the .300 Magnum rounds just fine. The wooden AK furniture had been replaced by desert camouflage reinforced fiberglass. He attached a scope and test fired. With the rifle set to a “point-blank” of 200 yards, at a mere 25 yards he knew how high the first shot should hit. The test impact was within millimeters of Bolan’s estimation, and he reset the scope.

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

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

Bolan tensed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bolan nodded. “Wade was an aberration?”

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

“So you never got paid,” Bolan said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I pay my own way,” Bolan stated.

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

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

Red raised an eyebrow. “Against Eugene Waylon?”

Bolan nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He decided to get in touch with the men Augustyn sometimes called in for backup. There were four of them, members of a U.S. Marine detachment who had gone AWOL in the Philippines when they had come under suspicion of hiring themselves out to local gangsters as muscle. Going into hiding, the former Marines simply expanded their moonlighting activities for the Filipino mobsters to become full-fledged mercenaries. As hired guns, they were among the best, well-trained marksmen, and a disciplined fire team. The renegades’ escape had squashed the Marines’ and Navy’s efforts to make an example of them.

Waylon heard Garrett Victor’s gruff voice as the squad leader picked up. “What?”

“It’s Waylon. I’ve got work for you,” the businessman said. “Where are you?”

“Kickin’ back in Sydney,” Victor replied. “Having fun. Wade need help?”

“He needs avenging,” Waylon corrected.

“What the fuck?” Victor growled.

“Someone killed him, and he’s now going on an operation in Darwin,” Waylon explained. “I need this bastard taken down, preferably without the Black Rose finding out.”

“Why not get the triad to take this mook down?” Victor asked.

Waylon sighed. “And let them know that their number-one foreign asset has been compromised?”

“He’s still going to be dead. They give you another job…”

“How’d you like some fat triad money, Gar?” Waylon asked. “You and the boys living higher on the hog, and you won’t have to pull grunt work like sitting on a cargo freighter, chasing off pirates.”

Waylon could hear the gears turning in the greedy mercenary’s brain.

“This guy took out Wade, though,” Victor stated. “He’s obviously bad news.”

“That’s why I’m calling you and the boys,” Waylon explained. “The four of you could outfight anyone.”

“It’ll take us a while to get a flight to Darwin.”

“I’ll arrange it all for you. You can pick up the tickets at the counter,” Waylon informed him. “Do I have you on board, or do I have to look elsewhere for someone with balls?”

“Nobody tells me I ain’t got balls, Eugene,” Victor snarled. “I’ll rouse the boys and we’ll bring this fucker’s head to you.”

Waylon smiled, and told them at which airline they could pick up their tickets.

With a group of easily goaded, overly macho thugs like these four, Eugene Waylon could not only recover from the loss of Augustyn, but continue living in the style he was accustomed to.

But first things first. The tall man in black was going to have to die.