Don Pendleton: Omega Cult

If Lee Jay-hyun had been a true religious man, instead of just a fraud using the Congregation as his cover for the moment, prayer might be an option. But to whom? And seeking what? Should he employ the great American vernacular Dear Lord, please do not let me get my ass shot off?

Preposterous. A more devout man might have called it blasphemous.

Hunkered behind his desk as if inside a foxhole, Lee strained his ears for any sound issued from the staircase or the third-floor landing. It was obvious that his security had failed him, the entire detachment likely slain by now. Their deaths presumptive meant no more to Lee Jay-hyun than any insect he might crush while strolling down a sunlit sidewalk. They were pawns who’d served their purpose in a losing game.

Now it was down to him, the king—or bishop, if he gave the ranking role to Shin Bon-jae in Seoul—and he was cornered, out of moves. He could not zoom across the checkered playing field and strike from unexpected angles at his unknown enemy.

Once again, Lee felt the urge to call and caution Park Hae-sung. And once again, he quashed it. If he managed to survive somehow, the record of that call could finish him: prison for life without parole, perhaps death row, neither alternative appealing to him. On the other hand, if he did not emerge still breathing from this confrontation, why should he help Park escape?

With Master Shin, the damned son of a bitch from Pyongyang had convinced Lee to participate in the deranged Los Angeles attacks, promising the reunion of his sundered homeland as the ultimate reward.

Madness. Where had it gotten him so far?

Right here, clutching a pistol, waiting for the end, while all his wealth and future tax-exempt income circled the sucking drain.

Footsteps sounded outside, muffled by carpet but as clear as cadenced drumbeats to Lee’s tingling ears. He heard a lone, familiar floorboard creak, the footsteps pausing as his unknown adversary hesitated just outside his office door.

Lee almost started firing but knew he would be lucky if he grazed the enemy, much less disposed of him. There was a ringing in his ears, and it required a moment for the second soul of the Omega Congregation to decide that he was hearing distant sirens—fire trucks, possibly police—rushing toward Delmar Street in an attempt to save him.

Would they be in time?

His office door burst open, framed a figure clad in black, and Lee Jay-hyun began to fire his pistol like a man insane, no thought of aiming accurately, simply jerking at the trigger to unleash a hail of hollow-point rounds.

* * *

BOLAN SAW THE muzzle-flash before he heard the shot and dived headlong across the office threshold, landing on his stomach, his M-4 pointed toward a heavy desk. The gunman crouched behind it like a meerkat peeking from its burrow, somehow armed and dangerous.

How heavy was the desk? He knew of only one way to tell.

Bolan unleashed a stream of 5.56 mm NATO rounds, stitching a line of holes across the shiny, dark wood facing him At least a couple of the slugs hit home, punching the shooter backward, against the nearest wall. The gunman lost his pistol then. It tumbled into his bloody lap and down between his knees, while he sat gaping at the man whose shots had gutted him.

The man’s lips moved, the voice emerging from them speaking flawless English.

“Who are you?”

“Names aren’t important,” Bolan said, rising. “The point is I know you and Park Hae-sung. Hit like you are, you’ve got a chance to live. Tell me about your plans with him and I’ll take off. You take your chances with the law.”

“You’re not police?” Lee sounded almost sure of it, already.

“Not by a long shot,” Bolan confirmed.

“And if I tell you? What becomes of me?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Bolan replied. “Stonewall the cops or cut a deal. It’s all the same to me. I came for information, not your head. If that was what I wanted, you’d be dead by now.”

Lee nodded, almost absentmindedly, and wound up peering at the floor. Perhaps at something between his feet? Perhaps the gun he’d dropped?

“Say I believe you...” He was slurring words now, as he lost more blood. “Who shall protect me from the master?”

“Shin? You’ll be the least of his concerns,” Bolan said.

“You intend to slay the dragon?” Lee forced a smile and shook his head. “You are a fool.”

“Let me worry about that,” Bolan advised.

“A fool,” Lee said again, slumping forward as if swooning.

But as Bolan saw, Lee wasn’t fainting. Rather, he was straining, groping, toward the floor.

“That’s not the best idea you ever had,” Bolan growled, shouldering his M-4 carbine and lining up its sights.

“What else is left?” Lee challenged, pistol rising as he straightened.

Bolan shot him through the forehead, giving him a misty crimson halo. Any answers Bolan had hoped to gain were sprayed across the wall behind Lee’s chair.

Enough. Now it was down and out before the sirens closed off his retreat.

Bolan ran back along the third-floor hallway and down the stairs, past huddled bodies leaking on the runner, carmine darkening the claret fabric. Smoke roiled at his back, but no one intercepted him as he made the ground floor and retraced his steps into the TV room.

Outside, the cult acolytes who’d jumped into the pool still bobbed there, likely cold by now but still too frightened to crawl out. “Help’s on the way,” Bolan informed them as he passed. “Hang in there if you can.”

He slung his carbine, scaled the redwood fence and jogged to his rental car. There, he took time to hide the M-4 in its duffel bag, zipped that, then slid into the driver’s seat and took his time pulling away. If cops were following the fire trucks as he pictured, Bolan didn’t want to give them anything to chase.

His next stop was Portrero Hill, to have a talk with Park Hae-sung. Whatever information Lee had kept from him, Bolan would try to squeeze out of the North Korean. Failing that, at least he could eliminate one more link from the chain that bound Seoul and Pyongyang to the sarin gassings in Los Angeles.

Either way, it struck him now that there’d be no avoiding one more flight, at least—a long one westward to the Far East, one of those odd geographical anomalies Nature seemed to love.

The only way to tear the plot up by its roots was in the garden where foul hands had planted it to start with. How long since the Executioner had last stood on Korean soil? It didn’t matter now.

Evil had called him back. And duty.

Neither one could be ignored.

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