Don Pendleton - Murder Island

“I know, Striker.” Brognola sounded tired. “Be careful. Call me back when you’re ready to go and I’ll have those coordinates for you.”

“Always am, and I will,” Bolan said and hung up. It looked as if his reckoning with Gapon was going to be postponed a little while longer.

He sat for a moment, the phone in his hand, considering his options. He couldn’t charter a flight legally—not without adding to the plethora of complications—which meant he had to find a pilot who didn’t mind working off the books. He also needed someone who knew the area, which narrowed his pool of candidates substantially. He knew a few pilots with those qualifications, but he didn’t have time to track them all down to see whether they were free. The longer he went without finding Spence’s plane, the less likely it was he’d ever find it, if it had crashed. There was a lot of ocean between Hong Kong and Tokyo.

He tossed the phone onto the bed. That was the question, however. Had the plane crashed? Or had it gone off course and, if so, why? It was a mystery, and Bolan hated mysteries.

His job right now was to find a pilot, and quick. And he knew just the man who could help him.

With a sigh, Bolan left his apartment and went back upstairs. The three thugs were gone and the rain was coming down steadily, pooling ankle-deep on the roof. Mr. Regmi was still at his table, examining his Mahjong board. He looked up as Bolan sat across from him.

“I might have time for a game, after all,” Bolan said.

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