Don Pendleton: Enemy Arsenal

“Chuò! Chuò!”

“What the hell?” Stuart, for all his supposed indolence, took a step forward, only to have the muzzle of the pistol swivel to cover him. He raised his hands, not alarmed enough yet to put his drink down.

“What’s going on?” Barrett didn’t take his eyes off the gun, estimating the distance between him and the boy, who couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven years old. The boat hook was still in his hand, but he was careful not to draw attention to it.

“He told us to stop. He might be a decoy for pirates.”

“Damn, we need to disarm him and warn the others.” Stuart shifted his weight, drawing the boy’s flat stare. At that, Barrett lashed out with the hook, trying to knock the gun aside, or even better, right out of the boy’s hand.

Catching the movement from the corner of his eye, the boy ducked under Barrett’s swipe and swung the gun over toward him, which spit flame as he pulled the trigger. Barrett felt a sudden stab of pain in his abdomen, and looked down to see an expanding spot of dark wetness on his shirt.

“Little bastard...shot me...” Barrett leaned against the railing as the steward leaped forward to grab the pistol, wrenching it out of the boy’s grasp. Distracted, he didn’t notice the shadowy form that came around the corner of the yacht and slipped up behind him.

Barrett tried to shout a warning, but Stuart and the crew member were talking at the same time, calling for the physician. Their shouts for help mixed with the foreign curses and cries of the wriggling boy. The steward’s voice was cut off with a gasp as the shadow came up behind him and wrapped an arm around his throat, doing something that made the man arch his back, his expression a grimacing mask of agony. The other man, a short, wiry Asian dressed in shapeless black pants and shirt, stepped back and let his victim fall to the formerly spotless deck, now dappled with Barrett’s blood. A large knife, its blade dark and gleaming wet, was in his hand.

“Shit!” Stuart hurled his drink into the man’s face, the glass shattering against his cheek and making him drop his blade and clutch his face, screaming in pain. “Come on, buddy!” He grabbed Barrett and hoisted him up, slinging his limp arm over his shoulder.

“Rachel...don’t let them get Rachel...” James found it suddenly hard to think. His free hand, clamped over his wound, was soaked in blood, and he knew if he didn’t get help soon, he would die.

“Let’s just get inside— Son of a bitch!” Stuart’s frantic tone made Barrett look up to see three more of the invaders, machetes and pistols in hand, running toward them from the ship’s bow. Shouts and screams could now be heard from elsewhere on the yacht, along with the thuds of running feet.

“Come on!” The Kirkall brother wrestled with the door, shoving it open and pushing Barrett through. Stepping over him, Stuart pushed the door closed just as a body thumped into it from outside.

“James, help me—I can’t hold this against all of them—”

Barrett, however, couldn’t even help himself, his vision fading to gray as the blood loss started to take its toll on him. He heard a scream from somewhere in the room, then felt footsteps beside him as the door slammed open, Stuart falling over him with a grunt.

The sound of rapid, shouted Chinese filled the room as the hijackers beat Stuart to the floor. Barrett felt himself supported by warm, familiar hands, and looked up to see Rachel’s tear-stained face above him.

“What happened, baby?” She took his hand away from his stomach, stifling a gasp at the growing puddle of blood leaking out of him. “Oh, my God—James, we have to get hel—”

Before she could do anything, her head was jerked backward, and she was dragged away from him by her hair, screaming and grabbing her assailant’s hands. Barrett was left to flop onto the floor, helpless.

“Leave...her alone...” he gasped, trying to muster the strength to crawl after her attacker, but unable to make his arms and legs work. The last sounds he heard were the thuds of fists on flesh and the piercing screams of his girlfriend before darkness overtook him.

CHAPTER ONE

“These chulos better show up tonight. Gettin’ tired of feeling my rear end grow wider sitting all night waitin’ on ’em.”

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, turned from watching the dilapidated warehouse near the docks of the Los Angeles Harbor to shoot a wry look at his partner. “I’m sure they’ll be here soon enough, Cal.” His grin disappeared as he returned to watching the night. “If they want what we’re selling bad enough, they’ll be here.”

The two men were dressed in expensive, casual clothes: silk shirts, linen pants and tasseled Italian loafers. Bolan checked his appearance in the visor-mounted mirror, smoothing his gelled black hair one last time. Ice-blue eyes stared back at him out of a tanned face.

They sat in a silver Cadillac Escalade, its rear shocks compressed from the heavy load in the rear, peering through tinted windows at their eventual destination. Bolan suppressed his smile as he glanced at Calvin James, a member of Phoenix Force, and his partner for this op. “You ready?”

The lanky African-American snorted. “I was born ready. Just make the call. And remember, these fuckers don’t mess around. They sniff pork, we’re both dead men.”

“Well, then, it’s a good thing we don’t mess around, either.” Bolan hit a speed-dial button on his cell phone and lifted it to his ear. “We’re here... Same ride as always... Hell no, we weren’t followed. Yeah, yeah.” He turned to James. “Flash your lights.”

James flicked the headlight switch on and off once, then again while taking one last look around to make sure no one was taking undue interest in what was about to go down.

Next to the warehouse, several large, rusty panel trucks rested in a parking lot, all encircled by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The gate to the lot was closed and secured with a rusty chain. Bolan thought he saw a glint of shiny metal on the chain, but before he could take a second look, the warehouse’s garage door rumbled up, revealing a cavernous, dark interior. A single light flashed on inside, casting a dim glow into the cloudy night.

“Let’s do it.” James put the SUV in gear and rolled forward.

Bolan fixed his partner with a searching gaze. “You followed my advice, right?”

“Yeah, although I still think we’re courting suicide to go in not packing.”

“We’re arms dealers, not users—there’s no reason for us to carry. Besides, the SUV’s armored, so just get to it in case of trouble, remember?”

“Yeah, it’s surviving the short trip in one piece that concerns me.”

“I suggest leaving your door open a crack. That split second to work the handle can make the difference between life and death.”

Now James glanced over at him, meeting Bolan’s calm, steady gaze. “Damn it, I never can tell if you’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

The gleaming SUV pulled up in front of a cluster of eight Latinos, all dressed in variations of the L.A. gangland look: baggy, low-riding jeans, white wife-beater

T-shirts, or flannels with the top button fastened, even in the city’s ninety-five-degree heat, and immaculate ball caps or bandanas tied low, almost covering their eyes. The light from the overhead lamp illuminated only the surrounding area, making Bolan’s threat sense tingle a bit; they had no way of knowing who might be in the darkness, waiting to attack when the time was right.

The garage door descended behind them, cutting off the outside with a slam of metal on concrete. The gang members slowly fanned out in a loose semicircle around the Escalade, no one making a sound.