Don Pendleton - Murder Island

Bolan followed the girl upstairs and out onto the roof, where a crowd was starting to gather.

Four young men were crowded in front of Regmi’s shack, yelling at the old man in English. Bolan knew instantly what they were after—the unlucky inhabitants of these penthouse shanty towns were regularly victimized by gangs who sometimes, but not always, worked for the building owners. Residents were shaken down for money they rarely had, and evicted when they could no longer pay the exorbitant rents they were charged for living rough.

Bolan had sent more than one such group on their way on his previous visits to Hong Kong. He didn’t recognize these men from those earlier confrontations, but he could read their lean, hungry looks easily enough. Not enough food, not enough love, not enough anything, made wolves out of people, whatever their nationality.

Regmi stared up at them placidly as they shouted at him, his eyes bright and clear behind the scratched lenses of his glasses. He was a small man, and seemingly getting smaller as he got older, but he had a big voice and when he saw Bolan he boomed, “Ah, here is the man you should ask about that, my friends.”

The crowd parted around Bolan. Four heads swiveled toward him and Bolan said, “I think you gentlemen should leave.”

He sized them up quickly. They were young, but built hard, toughened by a life on the streets. No guns that he could see, but that didn’t mean they weren’t armed. They hadn’t expected trouble, however. He glanced at Regmi, who smiled genially.

“This is Mr. Ortega,” the old man said. “Mr. Ortega, these four young men wish to collect a second rent from the inhabitants of this building.”

“Well, that seems unfair,” Bolan said.

Regmi smiled. He was a wily old fox and Bolan suspected that he’d engineered this little showdown for his own amusement, as well as that of his neighbors.

“It is, is it not?” Regmi said. “But they will not be budged, I am afraid.”

“No?” Bolan locked eyes with the biggest of the men and said, “Perhaps we can negotiate.” The four traded glances, and Bolan sighed. They never wanted to negotiate.

The first punch was a wild one, a looping, undisciplined blow that Bolan easily batted aside. He replied with a stiff pop to the young man’s belly, folding him double. As the youth wheezed and bent forward, Bolan caught his head and propelled him into a cement wall, hard.

The second came in fast, a cheap knife in his hand. He slashed at Bolan and the Executioner caught the blade between his palms and twisted it out of its owner’s grip. As the youth backpedaled in shock, Bolan examined the knife and then sent it spinning into a wooden wall with a flick of his wrist.

The thug came at him in a rush, fists balled up. Bolan blocked one blow and then another before stabbing the stiffened fingers of his right hand into the youth’s throat. The young man sank, gagging. Bolan drove a knee into his skull and knocked him sprawling, even as the last two members of the quartet came at him in a rush.

Bolan spun to face them. He jerked out of the way of a punch and snagged the young man’s wrist, pulling him forward to drive a hard uppercut into his jaw. The youth sagged and Bolan shoved him into his friend, who stumbled back in surprise. His eyes widened comically as Bolan stepped toward him, and he released his friend and bolted for the stairs.

Bolan was tempted to pursue but restrained himself. The point had been made. He looked down at the three unconscious criminals and then at Mr. Regmi’s grinning face. The old man pushed aside the blanket he’d been huddling under to reveal a revolver.

“How long have you had that?” Bolan asked.

Regmi shrugged and set the weapon aside. It looked like an old Pryse Army revolver, which meant it was an antique. It seemed well cared for, at least.

“And why didn’t you use it?”

“I’ve only got four bullets,” Regmi said. “I did not want to waste them.” He patted the table in front of him as the crowd began to disperse. “Sit down. I owe you a rematch.” The Mahjong board had already been set up.

“Not tonight, I’m afraid,” Bolan said. “I have to leave in the morning.”

“Oh?” Regmi said slyly. “Well, at least you had time for a visit.”

Bolan smiled. “Would you like me to get rid of them?” he asked, gesturing to the three would-be extortionists. The air was damp with the hint of rain and Bolan looked up at the night sky where dark clouds were gathering strength.

Regmi waved a hand as he examined the Mahjong board in front of him. “No, lying in the rain will be a good lesson for them.” He looked up. “Are you sure I cannot tempt you to a game?”

“Sorry, Mr. Regmi,” Bolan said as he headed toward the stairs.

“You are a good neighbor, Mr. Ortega,” Regmi shouted after him.

When he got back to his room, Bolan heard the sound of his satellite phone. He answered it and the rough, rumbling voice of Hal Brognola filled his ear.

“Striker, are you busy?”

“Packing up to get out of country tomorrow, why?”

“We’ve got a problem. It looks like Spence never showed up in Tokyo.” Brognola hesitated. And then said, “We think the plane went down.”

“Went down? Where?” Bolan asked. He had a sick feeling in his gut.

“Striker, if I knew that, would I be calling?” Brognola snapped.

Bolan took no offense. He could hear the tension in Brognola’s voice, even through the static-laden sat link. Brognola occupied a twilight realm where “on the books” met off, and his job was as much political as it was organizational. There was no telling what sort of pressure he was under, and Bolan was just as happy not to know.

“Have you alerted Spence’s superiors?”

“They won’t be able to get a search operation organized until they wrangle permission from the Chinese, who aren’t happy about this, as you might guess. They want to know what we were doing and why. I doubt your safehouse is compromised, but you might want to catch a flight to Tokyo or Melbourne.”

It was rare that Brognola sounded so worried. Bolan couldn’t blame him. The plan had been a good one, but it appeared to have gone completely off the rails.

“Why don’t I head up the initial search effort? I can get a plane.”

“Striker, I can’t authorize that—you’re off the books and I want to keep it that way. That means we need you out of there. This situation is already shot to hell. It’s too unstable to…”

Bolan laughed mirthlessly. “To what? Throw some gasoline on the fire?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Brognola said.

“It’ll be off the books, Hal. I can get a pilot and a plane, but I’ll need the transponder code and their last coordinates. If I can find them, I’ll get them out.”

Brognola hesitated again. Bolan knew what his old ally was about to say, and he could tell Brognola didn’t want to say it. Bolan saved him the trouble. “Cloud’s the important one, I know. If it comes down to it…”

“You’ll do what you think is best, Striker. You always do.” Brognola paused. “Before we lost contact with him, Spence said there’d been trouble.”

“Someone tried to stop the plane,” Bolan said. “Given the situation, I figured it didn’t matter who they were.”

“Ops like this leak like sieves, you know that. And chances are, word about the plane vanishing has already spread. That means you might not be alone in your search. Think you can handle that?”

“Definitely,” Bolan said.

“If you wait, I can have Lyons and the others—”

“We don’t have time, Hal. I’m our best shot and you know it.” He sighed. “If I need help, I’ll call. You know that.”