Don Pendleton - Blood Sport

"They want him to practice a series of unusual archery shots. One from two hundred yards, and another in which he must fire off five bull's-eyes from thirty yards, but all within fifteen seconds."

"Sounds impossible. Is that why he refuses?"

Babette lowered her voice again, more out of respect than any possibility that he could not hear her. "No, Cliff can do the shots all right. But be retired last year from his trick-shooting career following, well, an accident. His fourteen-year-old son was killed. It wasn't Cliff's fault, he'd been away on tour. But his son and some friends were practicing tricks they had seen him do, and one of them accidentally shot an arrow into Cliff's son. After that, he quit his job and refused to pick up a bow again. These people have beaten him, but they don't want to hurt him to the point where he won't be able to shoot."

"I've got a feeling they may not be so careful next time." Bolan moved directly under the hanging bulb. He motioned the others to come closer. All except Clifford obliged.

"I can't go into details yet," he told them. "But I can guarantee that you'll soon have a chance to escape. What you make of that chance will be up to you."

"When does this "chance" take place," Mako asked, the skepticism thick in, his voice.

"Sometime over the next two days. That's the best I can do."

"Who are you?" Udo asked. "Army Intelligence?"

"Just a guy in the same tight spot that you're in. Now, you're going to hear me saying some things and see me doing some things that won't make you think I'm on your side. But I am. You have to believe that, no matter what happens. Everything depends on that. Do you understand?"

Before they could respond, the door was wrenched open and Rudi's mountainous frame stood in the doorway. Bright sunlight streaked around his body like white flames.

He stepped into the room, tapping his log into his open palm.

Tanya Morganslicht appeared behind him, her expression calm, her voice crisp and businesslike.

"We have decided to exploit you, Sergeant," she said to Bolan. "Welcome to the Zwiaing Horde."

"What exactly is my percentage of this deal?" Bolan asked immediately. "In dollars and cents."

Tanya allowed herself a small smile. "You have just come within an inch of horrible death, and all you can think about is your percentage. You amaze even me."

Bolan started toward the open door, but before he had taken a full step, Babette grabbed his arm and whirled him around. She slapped his face with stinging authority.

"You lying traitor!" she spat.

Tanya laughed. "Well, Sergeant Grendal, apparently your charms have their limitations after all."

"Yeah," Bolan said, rubbing his check. "Apparently."

Bolan sat in the back of the VW van with six other members of the assault team as they sped through the cool German night. The big Heckler and Koch lay flat across his knees like a streamlined hunk of modern sculpture. Tanya Morganslicht was driving, and was also holding onto the H and K's ammo clips until this tense party had reached the Black Sunday hideout. Rudi literally rode shotgun, the thick log temporarily replaced by a Stevens Model No. 77 12-gauge shotgun with slide-action and side ejection. It had only a five-shot tubular magazine, but each of those five shots was like a shower of flaming meteors. Every mile or so, Rudi would look over his shoulder at Bolan. Through the back window of the van, Bolan could see Thomas Morganslicht's duplicate van as it tagged close behind with an additional six armed terrorists. It was a small force, but if Hal's monthly update briefing had been correct, it was sufficient to handle the slightly larger Black Sunday group. Bolan leaned his head against the metal side of the van, let the rhythmic vibrations massage the back of his scalp.

"Cigarette?" one of the hardmen asked the soldier sitting next to Bolan.

The young terrorist patted his pockets and shrugged. Bolan reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of the brand he had seen in the dead Sergeant Grendal's pocket. "Here, pal," he said.

"Ah, American!" was the terrorist nodded appreciatively.

"Pass them around," Bolan said, tossing him the pack. There was a murmur of pleasure and thanks from the six as they all reached for a cigarette.

Bolan replayed the scene in the garage. He had calmly urged the hostaged athletes to be ready for an escape, but Mako had been skeptical.

The Welsh archer had ignored him. Udo Ganz was so shaky he could not be relied on. And the only one who had originally trusted him had slapped his face when Tanya Morganslicht announced his introduction into the Horde. Of course he had warned them that they would hear some things that would make them doubt him. Maybe he hadn't been convincing enough. It was hard to move into a group of desperate people and gain their trust. But if he failed, it would be impossible to get them moving when the time was right. They either had faith or they did not. If they did not, there would be no escape for them.

What were the opportunities opening up for him on this mission now... Killing Tanya and Thomas at a premature moment would not solve things at all.

They might be the brains of this vicious, crazy group, but once they were gone their followers would scatter to other berserk groups, and perhaps carry the Plan with them, whatever it was. Bolan wanted the big kill, he knew that now.

Tanya Morganslicht brought the van to a halt. They were parked on the side of a deserted road. She slid out of her seat, stooping slightly as she turned to face her men. Even in the dark, Bolan could see the face glowing with excitement at what was to come. Her hair was pulled back and pinned to the top of her head, making the sharp widow's peak look like some sort of Roman helmet.

"We must do what is necessary for our cause," she began. Bolan looked out the back of the van and saw her brother addressing his troops also, probably with the same rehearsed speech. "Even if it means some of our political brothers and sisters must die. Our struggle is larger, more important than any individual lives. We need their weapons to complete our mission, and in two days, when our allies in the East see what we have accomplished, they will understand the actions we are forced to take tonight." She paused and stared at each man in turn. "Naturally, we can take no survivors to identify us. So be thorough."

She reached around to her seat, turned and tossed two clips for the H and K to Bolan. He caught each, jamming the first into the gun and storing the second in his pocket.

"Thanks," said Bolan. How kind of her. She would never know how kind, he thought to himself. Because he was going to show his gratitude in the unique Executioner way.

It was a 9mall two-story farmhouse on a deserted stretch of dirt road, just twelve kilometers beyond Mannheim. Strategically it was a strong enough hardsite, with easily defendable perimeters and plenty of unobstructed view from the farmhouse. This was not going to be easy. A frontal assault would be suicide. The sixteen of them charging up the dusty driveway leading to the farmhouse could be picked clean by a twelve-year-old with a slingshot. Trying to bluff their way in with a broken-down-car story would not work either: these people had tried most such ploys during their own careers as terrorists. Tanya tapped Bolan on the shoulder and pointed her gun where he wanted him to go. He nodded, cradled the H and K in the crook of his arm, and crawled on his elbows and knees through the heavy underbrush near the barbed-wire fence that circled the darkened land. Rudi had already cut an opening and most of the troops had bellied through. It was an outrage of history that half the law enforcement agencies of the world knew all about this farmhouse, and yet did nothing. There were a lot of embarrassed mumbles about "circumstantial evidence" and such, but the real reason was that they were afraid to make arrests for fear of reprisals. No, if the law was goilig to take them at all they would have to kill them, outright and immediately. And that, they found themselves unable to do. Thus the place existed, a sitting target for the Executioner, awaiting its fate from beyond the law. Good. Mack Bolan knew this Black Sunday group for what it was, a mindless collection of writhing vipers with no purpose but destruction and murder.